


More Love (Than You've Shown)

by Jezunya



Series: (More Than) Flesh and Bones [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, Harry is the biggest Johnlock shipper, M/M, Non-Season 3 Compliant, POV Alternating, Post Reichenbach, Post Sherlock's Return, Present Tense, Sherly is a bit of an unreliable narrator, Stream of Consciousness, Substance Abuse, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombie-related violence, Zombies, at least John mostly has his shit together this time around, like at all, not s3!Mary or s3!Anderson or s3!Sherlock's childhood, unrequited feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 14:23:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 48,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jezunya/pseuds/Jezunya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reunited once more, John and Sherlock must struggle to find their footing as they rekindle their friendship – and navigate the burgeoning relationship that it could become – all while trying to survive the savage attacks of the bleak new world around them.</p><p>[Temporarily on hiatus while I move across the country & start at a new university!]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaand we're back! :D
> 
> As always, all my thanks go to Glasscannon, for her awesome betaing and general idea-bouncing skills, and to Madame_Mary, for all her Britpicking & medical advice. This just wouldn't be possible without them :)

_Corrupted by_  
 _The simple sniff of riches blown,_  
 _I know you have felt_  
 _Much more love than you’ve shown,_  
 _And I’m on my knees_  
 _And the water creeps to my chest._

 “Thistle and Weeds”  
Mumford & Sons

 

Mycroft is waiting on the inward side of the doors when Greg emerges from the decontamination chambers, hands clasped over the handle of his umbrella and assistant momentarily dismissed.

The Detective Inspector looks up from straightening his fresh set of clothing, no longer appearing surprised, after so many missions, to find the elder Holmes there to greet him upon his return. A single, silent shake of his silvery head, and Mycroft understands perfectly: still no sign of them, either of them, living, dead, or otherwise.

Mycroft does not sigh, nor does he allow his shoulders to droop or his spine to curve in defeat. He supposes his lips do pucker slightly, disappointment and frustration seeking any small outlet in these trying times, and the expression is apparently enough for Greg to interpret.

“They know what they’re doing,” he says, clapping a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder in a display of masculine amity. Greg has shown himself to be surprisingly tactile these last months they’ve worked more closely together. “If anyone can survive out in a zombie apocalypse, it’s those two.”

“The odds become significantly slimmer for an individual on the run, however,” Mycroft points out, feeling peevish – not at Greg, but at the situation, at his idiotic, hot headed brother, who could have been _here_ , who could have been _safe_ , had he not felt the need to slip off the grid, to slip right through Mycroft’s carefully constructed safety net, and all in search of a moving target that might or might not even prove to be attainable. “We’ve no reason to believe they are together, after all.”

“Yeah,” Greg shrugs, tossing his head from side to side in a carefree gesture, “but they found each other once before. Something tells me they’ll manage it again.”

“It does become a question of _resources_ at a certain point—”

Greg squeezes his shoulder – lightly, still amiable, but effectively cutting off Mycroft’s words all the same. “I’m going out anyway,” he says, voice quiet, gravelly, utterly sincere, “doesn’t hurt to keep an eye out.”

“No, I suppose not,” Mycroft concedes, deciding grace in acquiescence is the best current course of action. Then, tilting his head toward the hallway beyond, “We are expected for your debriefing.”

“Right,” Greg nods. He hesitates, his hand still heavy on Mycroft’s shoulder, bleeding warmth through the layers of his suit, and then seems to decide on a gruff, if sheepish, pat, and says, “Don’t worry, Mycroft. We’ll find them.” He grins, stepping away and letting his hand fall at last, and turns to start down the hallway, adding, “Or _they’ll_ find _us_.”

Mycroft doesn’t reply, silently following several paces behind Greg as he makes his way toward the meeting room. Amid the usual logistics and deadlines and quotas running constantly through his mind, Mycroft allows himself one very small internal sigh, and one rather sad, rather sentimental thought.

_Would that I had your optimism, Detective Inspector._

_Would that I could believe my brother is still alive._

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This was a mistake. A fool’s errand, an indulgent moment of insanity, born of frustration and sentiment, an idiotic vision of gifts and warmth and gratitude, closeness, affection._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd say spot the fandom trope, but...

“Ooh, these look Christmasy!”

(Crinkle of plastic, lightweight, thin, malleable; shift of multiple cloth-based items within.) Sherlock glances over and immediately scowls at the package Harry is brandishing. “No.”

“I suppose they’re technically meant for Valentine’s,” she muses, lowering the packet in her hands to examine it more closely before looking back over at him with a smirk, “but red is good for all _sorts_ of occasions. Colour of passion and all that.”

“I am not giving John _pants_.”

“ _Novelty_ pants!” Harry corrects him, grinning widely. “What, don’t think they send the right message?”

(Passion, romance, humour, affection, sex, _someone else—_ ) “Not in the slightest,” he sneers, turning away, moving back toward the front of the shop. The others are visible through the drizzle beyond the plate glass, Charles and Caleb foraging under the bonnet of a car across the street, the trolley beside them already half full of parts and batteries and bottles of drained fluids. His time could be so much better spent searching for usable electrical components, hunting down nearby undead, doing anything but _this_.

“Hey, no wandering off!” Harry calls after him, at last emerging from the undergarments section. “John will have my head if anything happens to you.”

Sherlock snorts, glaring about at the garish decor, all lace and pink and (anatomically incorrect) hearts, now shabby and caked with dust after ten months of neglect, ever since the plague had reached its tipping point in early February. It’s all so twee, so sickeningly sweet, images of fat, wingéd babies and animals with alarmingly large eye sockets, all somehow meant to equate to romance, dedication, _love_ – none of it associable with John.

This was a mistake. A fool’s errand, an indulgent moment of insanity, born of frustration and _sentiment_ , an idiotic vision of gifts and warmth and gratitude, closeness, _affection_. He shouldn’t be here, should never have broached the topic, and with Harriet of all people, it was a mistake, stupid, _stupid—_

“Look, there are three criteria for a good gift,” Harry is saying as she draws even with him, “something they’ll like, something they’ll use, and something they wouldn’t buy for themselves.” She holds up the package of bright red pants, smirking again (and _good lord_ , he hadn’t seen until now that they appear to have messages printed on them in white text), “I’d say these fit all three of those.”

Sherlock scowls at her, teeth clenching hard ( _oh yes, quite a lot of **use** could be got out of those, but he refuses to think of that, this is **his** time, not yet time for the next stage, he has weeks left before the deadline yet, he won’t be rushed, it’s **not** **fair**_ ). “Absolutely not.”

He hears Harry scoff as he turns his back on her once more, marching toward the door, knows she’s rolling her eyes heavenward behind him. “God, I didn’t think you’d be such a _prude_ about this. Oi, wait!”

“This is a waste of time!” he snarls back at her, nearly to the door, reaching for exit, for escape ( _abort mission, abort, abort!_ )

Harry catches up with him just as he grasps the handle. “You’re the one who asked me to help!”

“And I had expected somewhat more _assistance_ than _mockery_ ,” he responds acidically (stupid, moronic, look who he’s dealing with, how could he have expected any different?)

“Right. Sorry.” Harry sighs, looks around the store. “Come on, we’ll find something more _practical_ , shall we?” At Sherlock’s reluctant, distrustful look, she smiles up at him, somehow hitting a perfect mark between conciliatory and encouraging (that damn Watson family resemblance should rot in hell). “Come on, now. You don’t want to show up empty handed, do you? We’ll find something good, I promise.”

He stands stock still at the door, glaring down at his digits encircling the handle, jaw clamped tight.

( _John’s face aglow with alcohol and Christmas cheer, trying to draw Sherlock into the party, to socialise, be friendly with people he sees every day or nearly as much, far too often, when all he wants is quiet, wielding his violin like a shield, a talisman, too much chatter, social niceties he can barely keep track of, why must all these people descend upon them, interlopers, barging in, why won’t they just **leave** —_)

( _December. An empty safehouse. Not a word from Mycroft or his team, not that he’d expected any. Cold. He’s still recovering, fever hasn’t quite broken yet. Sonata playing in his ears, ghostly, hallucination. Blames his illness for the images of John swimming before his eyes, awful jumper, lovely smile, ache in his chest. Must be the fever._ )

Sherlock closes his eyes. Forces a breath out between clenched teeth. “Fine.”

Despite Sherlock’s misgivings, they do eventually find a gift he can deem acceptable. Perhaps Harry was not the best or most reliable choice of assistant, but she is the one person, aside from himself, who knows John personally, beyond his role as leader and caretaker of their post-apocalyptic band (his decision in seeking her aid in no way implies an sort of emotional closeness or understanding between Harry and himself – utterly ludicrous).

It is... simple. A small thing. But John is sentimental. He appreciates such gifts, items that might be called ‘thoughtful’ rather than ‘fine’ or ‘expensive.’ Not that he hasn’t taste, as Sherlock was pleased to learn when their consulting fees had seen an energetic upswing ( _the pay hadn’t been the goal, though, taking on such high-profile cases, desperate private citizens too wealthy and needy to trust the police, flamboyant in their gratitude, press conferences and newspaper photographers, a neon sign, here I am, **come and get me** —_)

He shakes those thoughts away, unnecessary now, overdue for deletion (perhaps: threat still possible, target unacquired; employ caution, re-examine at a later date).

His shoulder is throbbing by the time they return to the cars – they’d switched with Caleb and Charles so that they too could select gifts and suitable decor to bring back to the castle, Harry walking a slow circuit in the street, eyes alert, watching for danger, while Sherlock picked despondently at fuses and wiring in an abandoned lorry, enthusiasm sapped (molten ache of pain seeping down through bone marrow to engulf his arm, tendrils attaching themselves to his spinal column, creeping up his neck, pounding in his head, thoughts slowing, clouding over) – and his mood grows only more foul in the trip back to the castle (not helped by the jerky, unsure driving of the lead car: Caleb behind the wheel, Charles instructing him; Harry jabbing a finger in his side every time Sherlock growls out a complaint about their slow progress).

He rides slumped against the passenger side window (Harry never lets him drive, bossy, loud, impudent – John let him drive, John _liked_ when Sherlock would drive, when they went out on cases in the countryside, just the two of them, shared hotel rooms warm and safe, concerto accompanying John’s smile, visions of his face, happy, angry, stern, amazed, cold safehouse floor, empty, alone...)

Sherlock wakes with a jolt as the car rolls to a stop. Ahead of them, the castle’s main gate is yawning slowly open, barring removed and patchwork doors pulled aside to admit the idling vehicles. Harry shoots him an amused look, to which Sherlock responds with a glare, righting himself and irritably straightening his coat and jumper as they at last pull up to park along the inside edge of the wall. He twists to reach his knapsack just behind his seat, lifts, freezes (crinkle of plastic, thin, malleable, shift of fabric— _No!_ )

Harry meets his furious gaze with a look of utter innocence, infuriating and comical in its hyperbolic impression of sincerity.

“I _told_ you—” he begins to snarl out, just as Harry’s eyes flick over his shoulder, movement seen through the glass at his back (approaching footsteps, boots on loam and gravel, stride determined, controlled, no limp, irritated if not outright angry – damn).

“Careful – don’t want to ruin the surprise, now do we?” she grins cheekily, at the same moment that John raps his knuckles against the car window (twice, sharp – definitely irritated).

Sherlock glowers at her, jerking the knapsack into his lap and turning to shove the door open.

John sidesteps the motion easily, catching the door in one hand, and says mildly, “You know, a little notice that you two are going to up and disappear as soon as I’m not looking wouldn’t hurt.” (Tension in his voice, veneer of sarcasm over exasperation, dry, covering emotions receding (sonata in _agitato_ , _ritenuto_ , storm clouds gathering).)

Sherlock pushes past John with a huff, relieved at least to feel the corners of his _actual_ gift through the cloth of his pack, beneath the rubbish Harry had apparently slipped in with it while he’d been unconscious.

“When else are we meant to get in our Christmas shopping without you looking over our shoulders?” Harry replies behind him, and Sherlock can hear the smug grin in her voice. He grimaces, setting out with long strides across the courtyard toward the castle.

“You— what? Jesus, I’m amazed you two didn’t kill each other out there.” He can hear the disbelief in John’s voice, can perfectly visualise John’s shocked expression (brows raised toward his hairline, eyes wide and round, mouth turned down and hanging slightly open, horror at remembered attempts to force or incite Sherlock into taking part in exactly this practice years ago; merely participating in that farce of a celebration at their flat his only concession to the season, no gift he might give that wouldn’t have been painfully banal, obvious, his own damnable, sentimental feelings on full display, declared and unwanted and _hateful_ —)

A few others of the castle’s occupants are descending from the building proper as he approaches the entrance, all smiling and chattering and full of Christmas cheer as they come to help unload the group’s haul from the cars, camaraderie and excitement palpable in the air around them.

Sherlock elbows his way past them, scowlingly ignoring both Emily’s and Winston’s passing titters that he ought to help as well.

His head is pounding, shoulder aching in time with his heart rate, wintery light outside too bright and dim at once, skin too tight, itching, constricting—

He steps through the doorway – and directly into Professor Morstan.

“Oh! Oh, sorry, I—” She wobbles back a step, one hand righting her glasses before looking up at him (blanching slightly, quickly replaced by a determined smile, friendliness by sheer force of will). “Oh, uh, hello. You had a nice trip, I hope? Er, not ‘nice,’ obviously, zombies and all that, but—”

“You should get out there,” Sherlock drawls, mercifully putting an end to her (clearly panicked (still unsure if he’s a maniac set to snap at any moment, potentially mad serial murderer, afraid of doing anything to possibly offend him, inane olive branches extended at every opportunity (notes discordant, turning sour, bitter on the back of his tongue))) prattle. “I’m sure John will be happy for the additional company.” And he steps around her without further ado, backpack slung on his good shoulder and feet making a beeline for the cellar entrance.

“Oh, er, right...” Mary mumbles behind him, but Sherlock has already forgotten her, his mind leaping ahead faster than his legs can carry him, through the doorway and down the stairs, down into cave cool dimness, shelves at the back stocked with gleaming glass vessels. (Half-full bottle back in his room still, irrelevant, could do with a fresh one, will finish them both in due time, doesn’t want to wait, _doesn’t_ wait to crack the seal open and take a long draught of brandy, amber turned molasses dark in the gloom, scorching a path down his throat, drowning out crescendoing stampede in his head, _fretta_ , _volante_ , _fuoco_ , waiting for it to hit his bloodstream, for hazy, blessed relief...)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical terminology Sherly uses to express himself:  
>  _agitato_ – agitated, restless  
>  _fretta_ – haste  
>  _fuoco_ – fire  
>  _ritenuto_ – held back  
>  _volante_ – flying, fast


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sherlock’s not running away from John. He’s not about to get tired of John and he’s not going to up and disappear again. Whatever else their relationship may or may not be, Sherlock came back, from the other side of the world and back from the dead, just to find John._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I don't think I've said yet, this first chunk of chapters are a bit of a Christmas mini-arc. There are going to be the usual semi-weekly updates through Christmas, and then we'll get back to more actiony zombie stuff after the new year and a little holiday fluff for our boys ;)

John wakes late in the morning feeling muddled and sore, too many hours last night spent standing out on the wall in the cold, misty air, only to be followed by sleep full of strange, indistinct dreams. His head feels like it’s been stuffed full of cotton – sinuses clogging up, pressure behind his eyes and in his forehead, joints complaining even more than usual. Lovely.

 _You are getting too old for this_ , John complains mentally, massaging his bad shoulder without sitting up or so much as opening his eyes.

The dreams that had followed after he’d finally gone to bed John can only blame on the headcold he’s apparently coming down with. Maybe there’d been some hidden meaning in them, something trumped up by his subconscious, anxieties and hopes balled up into one and painted in watercolours across the landscape he’s come to know so well. At one point, he remembers the castle itself  being a great horned beast, a stone dragon protecting them, smoke puffing hot and thick from the tips of its spreading antlers while its front door had hung open as a fiery maw ready to devour the darkly menacing approaching figures. John had turned away, either to flee or fight he doesn’t remember, and the dream had shifted, castle monster disappearing into the surrounding woods – and suddenly the pipes of the smoke diffuser weren’t antlers on top of the building anymore but rather atop Sherlock’s head, a creature of myth stepped right out of the forest, too beautiful to be real. He’d stood there motionless, watching John with wide, pale eyes, as if waiting for him to move – and then disappearing with a startled look and a puff of smoke the moment John had reached out to give chase.

He doesn’t remember the rest. Just that image of Sherlock, brown and spotty with antlers and deer ears and a fluffy white tail to match.

Christ. Definitely a fever dream.

Groaning self-pityingly, John gives up on his shoulder and hauls himself upright, wincing at the protest from his inner ears and switching to rub at his sinuses instead.

It’s the end of his dream last night that bothers John now, the bit with Sherlock disappearing right in front of his eyes. John had come in from his shift on the wall at around midnight last night, and while Abigail and Rebecca, one of their two new arrivals, had gone ahead to their respective rooms, John had lingered in the hallway, following more slowly. When they were at last out of sight, he’d allowed himself to pause by the first door on the right, just for a moment, just long enough to listen to Sherlock’s quiet breaths on the other side, even and untroubled, deeply asleep. John had stood there for a minute or two, feeling something warm unravel in his chest, before smiling to himself and finally moving on toward his own bed.

Checking up on Sherlock isn’t a practice born of anxiety and paranoia, not anymore anyhow. John isn’t still waking in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, convinced that the last months have all been an hallucination and desperately seeking out his friend in hopes of proving his terrified worries wrong. He is no longer surprised to see Sherlock at breakfast, and he doesn’t jump when he hears the detective’s deep voice suddenly speak up beside him. Sherlock is very much here, he was never dead, and he seems to have no plans of leaving any time in the foreseeable future. John has put those issues, along with his personal anxieties and insecurities surrounding them, quite firmly to bed, which is why it makes little sense for his subconscious to still be dwelling on it.

The truth is, since the day of the shootout with that other group they’d encountered, he and Sherlock have been... good. Really good. They seem to be regaining some of their old camaraderie, if nothing else, the easy companionship they once shared back at 221B. While their new living arrangements here mean that they’re physically a bit further apart – a bit less right on top of each other, in each other’s space, sharing with so many more people than in the past, almost like living at school or back in the army barracks – John has found, now that their main fight about Sherlock’s disappearance and subsequent return has been resolved, the detective is actually seeking him out more. Sherlock still gets bored easily, and with increasing frequency the longer he’s inside the castle’s walls, but, contrary to John’s previous fears, he seems to find John’s company a balm for that boredom, rather than its cause.

Sherlock’s not running away from John. He’s not about to get tired of John and he’s not going to up and disappear again. Whatever else their relationship may or may not be, Sherlock came back, from the other side of the world and back from the dead, just to find John. So John’s subconscious can stuff its ludicrous anxiety dreams.

John shakes his head and pulls himself to his feet, putting the matter from his mind. He cleans his teeth and washes his face with the bottle of water on his chest of drawers and the wash basin that’s finally been reappropriated back from Sherlock’s room along with John’s medical kit. Morning ablutions seen to and a fresh set of clothes acquired – he decides against the temptation of a second pair of socks but gives in and pulls on his thickest, warmest jumper over his shirt, hoping to chase away the chill and lingering ache in his joints – John leaves his room to make his way downstairs and rejoin the waking world of the castle.

Sherlock’s door is closed when John passes, and he can’t make out any sounds of tinkering or muttering from within, but that probably just means the detective is elsewhere in the castle, working on any of his other projects or just generally making a nuisance of himself. Smiling ruefully, John continues on toward the great hall, but stops on the threshold between the residential corridor and the larger room, looking about in confusion.

It’s completely empty and silent but for the crackling of the fire.

A glance across from him confirms that the lavatory is open and unoccupied as well, Sherlock’s water-powered generator whirring away as always but no sign of the man himself, or anyone else for that matter. It’s still perhaps a bit early for the lunch hour, but this total desertion is... unusual. With the weather continuing to grow cold and damp, and the garden all but dormant now, most of their group has taken to spending their time in the fire-warmed great hall as much as possible, only venturing out for necessary tasks like guard duty or collecting firewood and other supplies. Other than in the middle of the night, when everyone but the night time guards have gone to bed, John can’t think of a time he’s seen the place completely empty like this.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when someone walks in through the front door.

“Oh— Doctor, er— John,” Mary says, startled in return. The two children, Sasha and Zach, are in tow beside her, Sasha holding onto one of her hands.

“Sorry,” John replies, rubbing at the bridge of his nose again and trying to calm his irrationally racing heart. “Guess I’m a bit fuzzy headed today.”

Mary nods, smiling but not commenting as she gets the children settled at the table once more for their lessons. “Are you, ah, waiting for someone?” she asks delicately after a minute of silence.

“Sorry?” John lets his hand fall away from his eyes, looking over at her again from where he’s still leaning on the doorjamb.

Smiling shyly again, Mary points above him. John looks up, tilting his head back, and then immediately takes a step out of the doorway, letting out a single, congested, huff of laughter. Someone has apparently managed to find a sprig of mistletoe, probably harvested fresh from among the trees just outside the castle walls, and has hung it in the doorway, complete with a cheerful red bow. “I see the Christmas decorations are getting under way,” he says, looking around again and noting the additions to the room.

Fairy lights have been strung about the walls, secured by nails driven between the stones. _Thank god for earplugs,_ John thinks – he’d been completely unaware of any hammering going on while he was asleep. More nails have been added to the wall above the arched fireplace opening, no level mantelpiece to speak of but at least the possibility to hang stockings. One corner of the room, normally reserved for John’s medical station, has been cleared out in the past few days, the metal table shifted toward the front of the room to make room for stacked boxes of holiday decorations and gift wrapping supplies. What appears to be a bright red vinyl tablecloth has also been spread over a portion of the newly open floor space while John was asleep, and atop it are two haphazard piles of stuff: one consisting of sandbags and the other of car batteries.

The batteries are easy enough to figure out, even through the dull headache building behind his eyes. Since Sherlock got the hydroelectric system running, he’s had them collecting batteries from any abandoned cars they come across along the road and in the towns they visit. Any that are still viable – something about having the right amount and ratio of certain acids within them or something, cars have never been John’s strong suit – the batteries can then be charged up and, with a little hotwiring, used to power other small electrical devices throughout the castle, like Christmas lights or even space heaters, a definite step up from their original plan of fashioning rudimentary coal-filled braziers to warm each bedroom. There’d been some other issue about needing to make sure the turbine was moving fast enough under the power of the spring water to ensure that they were in fact charging the batteries rather than wearing them down. John hadn’t really caught all of what Sherlock had muttered about that, but he’d apparently determined their power source sufficient to move ahead with the project.

“What’re the sandbags here for?” John asks, and Mary looks up from what sounds like a maths lesson with Sasha and Zachary to answer him.

“Oh, didn’t Kal tell you? They’re putting up a Christmas tree.” She smiles at John’s nonplussed expression before turning back to her students.

A Christmas tree. It’s not as if they’ve any shortage of timber nearby, thought there aren’t many small, young trees to choose from. But John had assumed the job of cutting down and hauling an entire conifer inside would be too laborious and time consuming to attempt. As it was, they’d nearly gone without any sort of Christmas celebration at all. No one had really talked about it, but there had been a sort of lingering sense in the air that perhaps it was too frivolous, a waste of time when so much of their days were devoted to survival, to barely scraping by.

But then one evening, little Sasha had looked up at her mother during dinner and asked if Father Christmas would be able to find them now, or if he’d take their gifts to their old home by mistake. It was a bit like something out of those cheesy Christmas stories told in churches and children’s books, about some poor family learning the true meaning of Christmas through a stranger’s generosity or some such. But just like that, the decision had been made, without any discussion necessary, everyone seeming to breathe a unanimous sigh of relief and then growing increasingly excited as they all began to prepare for the coming holiday.

It’s a good thing to do, John thinks, holding onto traditions like this. Life isn’t really over, not as long as they refuse to let it be, zombie apocalypse or not. Even if it did feel a bit ghoulish scavenging through the garages and attics of the houses in town, pulling out boxes of stowed Christmas decorations and trying to ignore the memories that must be attached to them, families dead or gone who’d only a year ago celebrated together before packing these things away in the hope of the dawning new season.

So the sandbags are meant to be piled at the base of the tree, to balance and hold it up, short of a proper tree stand. And that’s where everyone must be: it’d probably take a whole team to get the tree in here, probably everyone who could be spared from other tasks—

 _Jesus Christ,_ Sherlock had better not be out there. Swinging an axe or pulling on a saw are the last things his shoulder needs, let alone helping to lift and haul an entire tree trunk inside.

Swearing under his breath, John makes for the front door, quickly scanning the courtyard – empty save for the guards, as expected. Swearing a little more loudly, he descends the steps and jogs across to the nearest section of wall.

“Have you seen Sherlock?” he calls up to Emily, trying to quell the anxiety already rising in his chest. “Did he leave with them?”

Emily looks down at him, a question clear on her face, while Lorena and Winston both look over from their posts to listen in. “Which them?” she asks in return, and at John’s frown she elaborates, “He went with Harry and Charles and Caleb into town, if that’s what you mean. The others are just a little ways into the trees right here.” She gestures over her shoulder, toward the forest to the north.

Into town – on a raid. Of course. The flatbed lorry is missing, taken by the group to fetch the tree no doubt, but so are two of the cars. Obvious, Watson. Blame the headcold again. “Right. Of course,” John says, rubbing at his forehead and feeling more than a little foolish. “When did they leave? Harry and Sherlock, I mean.”

“After breakfast,” Emily answers, smiling sympathetically down at him. “Did no one tell you they were going?”

“Not ‘til just now, no,” he sighs and squeezes the bridge of his nose one more time, before letting his hand drop and forcing a smile as he looks back up at Emily. “Thanks.”

Emily’s still grinning and shaking her head slightly as John turns to go back inside – and doesn’t it feel like ages since he’s gotten _that_ look. The _poor bloke, what did you do to piss off the girlfriend this time?_ look, the one that’s equal parts humour and pity, that he used to get from passersby every time he was kicked out of the flat because Sherlock needed absolute solitude to visit his mind palace, or whenever John could be seen disposing of some disgusting scientific detritus because his highness was in a strop over unsatisfactory experiment results, or even from members of the Met when Sherlock would disappear from a crime scene without warning, too caught up in chasing down some brilliant new lead to remember that his flatmate and supposed assistant wasn’t actually psychic and couldn’t actually divine where he was off to when he leapt into a cab and sped away on his own. 

John sighs, shakes his head, and climbs the steps back up to the front door.

Inside once more, he briefly considers starting on lunch preparations – two groups out at the same time will mean a lot of hungry people returning to the castle in the next few hours – but the pressure in his sinuses convinces him that no one wants to be exposed to whatever he’s got. Instead, he sets about making some soothing herbal tea for himself and, convinced by now that this isn’t just some morning stuffy headedness that would clear up after a little while out of bed, fetches some cold and allergy medication out of their stockpile down in the pantry, and then throws in some vitamin C tablets for good measure.

John settles at the opposite end of the dining tables from Mary and the children, tea, tissues, and hand sanitiser close by, just in case, and decides that sorting through the first of the boxes full of Christmas decor is a reasonably low-contagion-risk activity.

It’s a relatively mindless task, setting aside fragile baubles in their packaging and untangling strings of lights and beads, and Mary’s soft voice teaching the children adds what should be a soothing backdrop to John’s work – but he can’t shake the feeling of whiplash, of being sideswiped by awakening to a castle all but depopulated, half of the people who make up his world now simply disappeared, including, John can admit, the two people most important to him.

He can’t shake the image of Sherlock from his dream, starting like a frightened animal and disappearing in a puff of smoke, nothing more than an illusion.

It’s completely ridiculous, really – he _knows_ where Sherlock is, or at least he knows essentially where he’s gone, and it’s not as if either he or Harry can’t take care of themselves. They might bicker the whole time, and lord knows they’re each individually far too good at finding trouble, let alone together and unsupervised...

_Pale eyes widening, very literal interpretation of a deer in the headlights, terrified at John’s approach, at John’s hands reaching for him, and then just gone, evaporated, blink and you miss him—_

_Stop it,_ John tells himself viciously, yanking probably much too hard on a stubbornly snarled length of twinkle lights. He’s spent too long already living in fear that it was all a dream, a wishful delusion, that Sherlock had never really come back or that he was actually, truly dead, and John had made it all the worse on himself – on them both, really, if he’s being honest – by cutting himself off from Sherlock even when he could see that the man was right there. He’d wasted all that time being angry and bitter and needlessly worrying, and he was _not_ going to do that to himself – to them – again.

Sherlock and Harry would be fine. John had just woken up on the wrong side of the bed, and this damn cold was making him feel like shit and making him overreact to every little thing. They’d be back in a few hours at the most, and then John could give the both of them a piece of his mind for making him worry like this. Decision made, he gets back to work with renewed concentration and gusto.

It still makes for several excruciatingly long hours, though.

It’s mid-afternoon by the time they spot the cars approaching along the now well-worn path to the front gate. The crew that had gone to fetch the tree – Kal, Damien, and Tom, along with the second half of their set of new additions, Liam – have been back a long while, guards switched out, everyone having eaten their lunch and now moved on to other tasks about the castle. When the call goes up and the gate begins to creak open, John can’t drop the box of decorations he’d been sorting through fast enough. John’s mood, and sinuses, have improved greatly over the past hours, but he still feels perfectly justified in his irritation at his sister and former flatmate. Anyone would mistake them for unruly teenagers the way they’d snuck off the moment his back was turned.

He’s across the main hall and out the door in a few strides, down the steps and crossing the courtyard just as the two cars pull up to park along the inside of the wall. A quick glance reveals Charles and Caleb in the first one – the youngster behind the wheel, getting in more driving instruction and practice, good for him – which leaves the second car for Sherlock and Harry.

The passenger side is facing outward, toward the courtyard, and John can see Sherlock through the window, back turned, apparently fighting with Harry about something, and no doubt being mercilessly egged on. Typical. Rolling his eyes, John reaches the car and knocks sharply on the window, then pulls the door open. “You know, a little notice that you two are going to up and disappear as soon as I’m not looking wouldn’t hurt,” he remarks, gratified to hear just the right amount of peevishness and no hint of a cold in his own voice.

Sherlock scoffs and clambers out of the car, brushing past John with an expression on his face that says he’s already more than halfway to a sulk of epic proportions. John watches him go but doesn’t follow, knowing all too well that any sort of meaningful communication with the detective will be utterly futile until he’s properly pouted his way through whatever snit Harry’s got him in.

“When else are we meant to get in our Christmas shopping without you looking over our shoulders?” Harry asks behind him, climbing out on her side.

“You— what?” John turns wide eyes on her. Sherlock plus Christmas shopping was not a combination John would ever, ever, willingly try again. Between the crowds of rude, pushy customers, harried, overworked shop staff, and unending, indistinguishable holiday jingles playing from every speaker in every store, John had been glad just to make it back to their flat without either of them being arrested for assault or Sherlock’s head simply exploding clean off his shoulders. There was one incident involving cutlery and fine china that still makes John shudder to remember. Not that picking through a ghost town was anything like holiday shopping in the heart of London... But with Sherlock’s unflinching and completely unmasked disdain for holiday celebrations, and especially for the oh so terribly sentimental affair of gift giving, John doesn’t think the usual horrors of Christmas shopping are even necessary to make the trip hell. “Jesus, I’m amazed you two didn’t kill each other out there.”

Harry snorts, moving around the car to open the boot while John starts pulling boxes and tins from the backseat, handing them off to the others who have gathered around to help carry things inside. “Please, it was his idea,” she says, lifting out a crate full of more scavenged car batteries. “He practically begged me to help him pick something out.”

“What?” John follows her toward the castle, arms full of several cardboard boxes that appear to be full of tinned rations. “What do you mean? What did he get?”

Harry shoots him a teasingly reproachful look. “Uh-uh, you’ve got to wait ‘til Christmas. I’m not going to spoil the surprise for you, not after he went to so much trouble.”

“Wait, you mean...” Sherlock had got _John_ a gift. More than that, Sherlock had specifically gone out on a raid with the intention of finding said gift, and had even asked Harry to help him pick out something appropriate.

Huh.

John’s half a pace behind Harry into the great hall, and he just catches a glimpse of Sherlock striding across the open space, making a beeline from the entrance of the larder toward the residential hall, resolutely avoiding eye contact with everyone around him and clutching a large bottle of bourbon in both hands. Feeling his heart sink, John turns to his sister again.

“What happened while you two were out there? Did he strain his shoulder again?” he asks. Sherlock’s wound has been healing nicely, burn scars notwithstanding, and while he’s beginning to regain much of the strength and dexterity in his right arm, his pain levels don’t appear to be letting up much. Paracetamol doesn’t seem to take enough of the edge off, leaving him more irritable than usual and visibly stricken, and John feels he has little choice but to allow him to continue using alcohol as his foremost pain reliever. Not that he’d be all that likely to listen even if John did tell him to ease off...

“No, nothing like that,” Harry replies slowly, and she’s frowning in the direction Sherlock went as well, her expression thoughtful, possibly even concerned.

“Hm.” John makes a mental note to check on his friend later, after they’ve finished putting away the new supplies from the raid and Sherlock’s had some time to cool off from whatever argument he and Harry had been having. John will need to talk to him about stress again too, put on his best authoritative doctor voice and remind Sherlock of the very real detrimental effects it can have on a body, especially one recovering from the sorts of traumas Sherlock’s has been through of late.

For now, though, John’s got plenty of work to do – including trying not to wonder too much about what Sherlock Holmes might have got him for Christmas.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The music had always helped him think, soothing auditory mathematics to help him order his thoughts and work through problems and puzzles (helped him process emotions he was otherwise incapable of grasping)._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's been a slight hiccup on the editing front for this chapter, so please forgive any lingering mistakes (and feel free to point them out so I can fix them ;) )

The next day is somewhat less irritating than the raid ( _Christmas shopping_ , of all things, ugh) and Harry’s incessant (distasteful, obvious, spiteful) attempts at humour had been – but only slightly. The entirety of the castle’s population is abuzz with excitement for the coming celebration, giddily throwing all manner of garish decorations up onto every available surface and chattering nonstop about food and gifts and carolling and how terribly wonderful it is to be  _together_. 

Sherlock has never understood it. 

The greed aspect of the day is easy enough to dissect. Any living being of even barely passable intelligence would obviously be overjoyed to receive an object after which they’d been lusting, especially when it comes to them at no cost to themself. Thus the tradition of gift giving is formed, though the implication that participation in such somehow deems the giver selfless, altruistic, or generous is utterly ludicrous, as one only gives gifts with the understanding of something being given in return, whether material object or favour.

Sherlock’s own gift to John is a perfect example. Despite being a rather small, common thing, it bears a suggestion of sentimentality, and thus the expectation of John mirroring that sentiment, to one degree or another. Even if this giving does not appear to be an immediately self-serving action, even if it will never in fact build toward what Sherlock wants _most_ – it is a compromise, and what he’ll receive in return will be his consolation prize: better than nothing. 

At its most basic level, he supposes, even the desire for community is not such a complicated one after all. Strength and safety are to be found in numbers, survival through solidarity, an evolutionary advantage for those who can manage it (a principle only more evident now that the human population has been so diminished). Emotions are nothing more than neural chemicals at work, positive feelings reinforcing positive actions, anything that contributes to survival or procreation, meaning that the pleasure experienced at taking part in such group activities is a direct translation of that age old pack mentality. 

Of course, thrown into stark relief at times such as this is Sherlock’s own position most definitively outside of that community. 

His otherness had, in the past, been something easily dismissed or ignored (once he’d broken free of family obligations, once he’d made a sufficient impression on his peers at school and later on his professional associates, criminal and law enforcement alike, such that the offers and invitations, whether pitying or mocking, had finally begun to dry up (it’s not as though he’d  _wanted_ to be a part of their companies and social groups, not as though he’d spent his formative years watching and wondering what it was that allowed them all to laugh and converse and be so easily happy together, not as though every time that he’d attempted it himself had ended only in misery and embarrassment, painfully stooping to the lowest of intellectual levels and yet still managing to always be wrong wrong _wrong—_ ))

_(Chemical imbalances in the brain, autism, Asperger syndrome, antisocial tendencies, schizoid personality, misanthropy, dangerous inability to empathise – labels and more labels, none correct, none of them actually **helpful**.)_

The difference is only more palpable now, with so many people living in such close quarters to one another, knit together by their interdependent struggle to prosper without modern society or its conveniences. It rankles to untold degrees, as if he’s been forced back into the school dormitories, a foolish child once more with little control over his own existence (at least here there are no letters from home, no sporting events, no teachers’ favourites or overbearing headmasters, no two-faced offers of friendship and hazing (at least now he knows the signs and signals, has learned to be suspicious and watchful, dormitory resident again perhaps but wide-eyed gobemouche no longer)). It goes against everything he’s built the last eighteen years, every bit of the life he’d chosen and fought for and forged for himself. For nearly two decades, he had existed as a solitary figure, had insulated himself from the world and its vast stupidity, content,  _relieved_  even, to abide almost entirely on his own. 

But then, there had been John. 

John, who giggled at crime scenes and smoothed over sharp exchanges with clients and witnesses. John who sat at home to listen to Sherlock compose as often as he went out for pints with Lestrade or Stamford, who made tea and dinner and watched crap telly just to hear Sherlock yell at the set. John who draped blankets over Sherlock when he fell asleep on the sofa, John who followed wherever Sherlock’s cases took him, who ran along next to him with weapon drawn, who shot cabbies and assassins and punched out police superintendants and anyone else who threatened them.

(John, who went on  _dates_.)

He shakes his head, once, sharp.  _No. Not yet._

But that is precisely the point. In years past, Christmases past, there had always been  _others_  about. Friends,  _girlfriends_ , (intruders,) distractions. And Sherlock had... not reacted particularly well. 

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t _tried!_ He’d been (marginally) pleasant, he’d played carols on his violin (because it was John and Mrs Hudson who had asked him, because Lestrade was at least not making a nuisance of himself, because it was still only a _small_ gathering at that point), he’d even managed to recall the name of John’s (dull, boring, carbon copy, constantly revolving door) girlfriend (even if he’d forgot (tried to forget) that she was there (tried not to (hate) mind the endless parade of strangers John brought home, because they made John happy, relaxed, allowed John to breathe in between cases)).

It was a waste, though. He hadn’t tried hard enough. His behaviour toward Molly, and then Irene… (John had been so disappointed when Sherlock had returned, holiday cheer squandered.)

_(Empty safehouse, cold concrete floor, bed nearby but still too far away, fever, shaking, swell of music, notes velvety and warm, John smiling, cold, distant, solar system swirling away, out of reach, lost, his own fault…)_

He finds himself fingering chords against his empty palm, digits moving of their own accord, playing a melody that had composed itself during his time away, muscle memory embedded without conscious intention. He hasn’t touched a violin in over a year (doesn’t know what happened to _his_ violin, if John had packed it away (boxes forgotten in the recesses of a cupboard, too painful and inconvenient and difficult) with the rest of Sherlock’s discarded belongings when he’d moved out of Baker Street, or if Mycroft had come to collect it after Sherlock’s supposed demise, claimed a family right to take it, artefacts of dead Holmeses gathering dust in a country manor), yet his hands still know the way, his body still finds the correct stance, still sways to a beat only audible in his head.

The music had always helped him think, soothing auditory mathematics to help him order his thoughts and work through problems and puzzles ( _helped him process emotions he was otherwise incapable of grasping_ ).

Deliberately, Sherlock folds his hands in front of his face, elbows planted on the dining table and fingers interlocking, forced into stillness (concerto abruptly halting, ignored, rejected (nothing more than a crutch, another addiction, _not helping_ )).

“How are you feeling?” John’s quiet voice sounds above him. He sets two plates (one for Sherlock, one for himself, both piled high with beans and rudimentary baked goods and fried spam (ugh (closest approximation of meat left to them (haven’t seen any living land animals in months, easy prey for roving undead herds), closest approximation of a real English fry-up (John is in a good mood this morning)))) down onto the table before taking the seat next to Sherlock (on Sherlock’s left, John’s dominant hand on his far side, out of danger of jabbing Sherlock’s right arm).

“With the nerve endings present in my epidermal layer that transmit messages back to my brain for processing,” Sherlock deadpans, lifting his mug for a drink of tea.

“Tosser,” John replies, but shoots Sherlock a grin as he starts in on his own breakfast. “I meant the pain in your shoulder. Still at fairly high levels, I take it?” he asks with a pointed look at Sherlock’s mug.

Sherlock scowls, hunching his shoulders and setting the tea down (yes, all right, so there’s a splash of brandy in it as well as his usual scoop of sugar, but just a small one ( _yet another addiction,_ Mycroft’s voice sighs, shakes his head (pathetic)). “Yes, well, I was _shot_ after all.”

John looks away, guilt instantly readable in his face, in the set of his mouth and the furrow of his brows (oh wonderful, Sherlock, brilliant, truly embracing the Christmas spirit there ( _I don’t have friends!_ ( _I wonder why._ ))) “Right. Sorry.” John takes a few bites of his food, silence stretching between them for several long minutes, awkward and backlit by the chatter and conversation of the others around them.

Sherlock bites his lips, toys with the handle of his fork. “I’m... sure it’ll pass... eventually.” (It will pass, time always passes, this time with John will come and go and then it will be over, gone, forever.)

John smiles slightly and sighs very, very quietly. “It will,” he agrees, and finally ( _finally_ ) looks over at Sherlock again. “I know what this must be like for you, more than most. It’ll get better. Just— try not to put yourself into liver failure in the meantime, all right?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but doesn’t reach for his (brandy) tea again, not as long as John is sitting with him, anyway. His breakfast is eaten mechanically, motions of cutting and spearing and chewing automatic now, digestion not worth fighting over, no urgent demands on his cognitive functions to call precious blood flow away from other organs at the moment (not when John smiles at him like that, proud and warm and gilded, sunlight on a barren land). 

John stacks his utensils on his empty plate and wipes his hands and mouth with the accompanying paper napkin before reaching for his half-empty mug of tea. “We should try concentrating on physiotherapy more, I think, maybe heat and massage. Something _other_ than drinking your troubles away, yeah?”  

Sherlock snorts. “Turning to homeopathic remedies now, doctor?” he asks archly.

John glares at him over the rim of his mug. “Alcohol wouldn’t exactly be my first choice in prescription.” He finishes the last of his tea before pushing his chair back and standing once more. “I’m going to be taking care of some things outside most of the morning,” he says, gathering his discarded dishes. “See you at lunch?”

Sherlock looks up, blinking (upturning vocal inflection, John’s brows raised, hesitation, not merely social expression but legitimate question on his face). “Yes. Of course. Obviously.”

John smiles, dropping his gaze (apparently pleased (relieved?) by Sherlock’s response), and then, briefly, his free hand rests against the back of Sherlock’s neck (soft brush of fingers and palm, warm, carefully avoiding his shoulder and burns, gentle, gone far too quickly) before John turns away to take his dishes for washing.

Sherlock does  _not_  stare after him (doesn’t again commit to memory the feel of John’s hand against his skin, doesn’t memorise the sensation of tingling warmth, doesn’t hear swelling violin music, notes long and melancholy, _lugubre_ , yearning, empty).

He gulps his tea, revels in the burn of the alcohol searing its way down his throat, then wrinkles his nose when Harry drops into John’s vacated chair.

“So,” she says, grinning widely at him. Sherlock watches her with narrowed eyes over the rim of his mug, holding it like a shield between them. “John’s gone. You know what that means.”

“It means,” Sherlock drawls, already bored and growing increasingly annoyed with her presence, “that John intends to spend the next few hours repairing points of weakness or erosion in the outer walls, likely followed by chopping firewood and a handful of other menial tasks he’s too polite to keep from being talked into, possibly to include taking someone else’s guard shift. Meanwhile, I am left here, at the mercy of idiots and fools who insist upon making idle conversation,” he sneers, giving her a meaningful glare.

“Aww, aren’t you cute,” Harry smirks in reply, leaning her head on her upturned hand (can’t tell if she’s mocking or being sarcastic or making some other form of referential humour unknown to him). “I _meant_ , now is your chance to wrap John’s gift without him seeing – obviously.” She punctuates that last word by reaching up to flick his ear, which he dodges easily (reflexes finally returning to what they once were, no longer bogged down and slow, treading through mud chest-deep, despite the near-constant level of alcohol in his bloodstream). Then, after a pause, Harry regards him sidelong and asks, “You do know how to wrap a gift, don’t you?”

His eyes flick toward the piled supplies overtaking John’s medical table before he can stop himself, stacks of tissue paper and mass-produced greeting cards, spools of twisting ribbon, vibrant, gaudy giftwrap, boxes of all shapes and sizes, overflowing their borders, hanging to the floor, vivid and clashing and far too loud.

Harry is grinning knowingly at him when he looks back at her.

Sherlock bristles. “I hardly think plastering poor-quality paper around a regularly shaped object qualifies as a difficult task,” he snaps.

“Spoken like someone who’s never successfully wrapped a present in his life,” Harry smirks, pushing away from the table. Sherlock snarls at her back, then, scowling, gives chase when she instead makes for his bedroom rather than the aforementioned gift wrapping supplies.

“What are you doing?” he demands, catching up just as Harry lets out a triumphant crow and retrieves his backpack from under his bed (kicked there in a fit of pique the previous night, hoped to forget the entire infuriating business, irritation and doubts and irrational hope all drowned alike in the depths of an amber-filled bottle).

“I know you’ve never done this before,” she replies, climbing to her feet once more, “but you do actually have to have the gift in hand in order to wrap it.” She grins cheekily up at him and brushes past him to return to the great hall.

“Give that back!”

“Nope, you clearly don’t know what to do with it,” Harry says airily, not looking at him as he dogs her heels.

“I neither need nor want your help.”

“Don’t want it, maybe,” she concedes, at last glancing back at him as they approach the piles (and piles and piles) of Christmas (junk) supplies, “but I think we both know, in this area, Sherly, you need all the help you can get.”

He scowls as she turns away again (referring to more than the mechanics of wrapping paper, blasted elder siblings, _mind your own business_ ). “I can manage just fine on my own,” he says through gritted teeth.

Harry rolls her eyes at him, shooting him a look over her shoulder that is entirely unconvinced and more than a little pitying, before glancing once at the tubes of paper standing upright in a box beside the table and then back up at his face. “Well? Pick one.”

Nose wrinkling and arms folded over his chest, Sherlock sourly turns his attention to the collection of decorative paper: much of it in innocuous solid colours, others printed with birthday or Valentine’s day imagery (still enclosed in plastic, found in abandoned shops, anything red or green or even marginally passable for the holiday), precious few in actual wintery or Christmas themes (scavenged from the houses in town along with much of the decor now strewn about the castle, used, saved from year to year by previous owners). On the table, someone (right-handed, clumsy, amateur artist: Zachary) has tried to salvage a length of glossy, white paper printed with red (abstract, inaccurate, absurd) heart motifs by drawing (marginally realistic, if stylised) holly leaves around them in green pen. “This is stupid.”

“ _You’re_ stupid,” Harry sighs, rolling her eyes again. “Do you want to give John this present or not?”

“I don’t see why _this_ ,” he flicks at the free-hanging edge of one roll of paper (lime green backdrop, cartoonish automobiles cavorting across its surface: intended for a child’s birthday) with a finger, sneering distastefully, “is necessary in order to do that.”

“What else did you have in mind? Leave it in your backpack and hand that to him to open on Christmas?” She gestures with the bag in question, still slung over her right shoulder, frowning up at him.

“It’s certainly more practical,” Sherlock snaps in response, “and no less dignified than _this_ nonsense!”

“It’s _tradition!_ ”

“It’s _not even_ Christmas wrapping!”

“Yeah well, in case you haven’t noticed, the _world’s ended!_ ”

“You two all right over here?”

They both stop and turn to look down at the interruption: Emily, smiling up at them, eyebrows raised, dark eyes blinking innocently (surface emotions, displayed: soothing concern, tranquillity, helpfulness (motherly); underlying, (partially) hidden: amusement, opportunism (oh, interesting)).

“I— We’re, uh—” Harry is stammering, fingers flexing on the strap of Sherlock’s bag, knuckles showing white, neck and face flushing pink (far less interesting, ugh). She gets a hold of herself at last, though, takes a breath, and says with a smile (seen the same winning, disarming smile on John’s face – family resemblance strikes again), “Just trying to beat some Christmas spirit into this twat.”

Sherlock turns to glare at her again, but Emily laughs (no longer interesting, surprise quickly evaporating (Harry grins, wide, proud of herself (urge to roll his eyes is _staggering_ ))) and then brushes his arm lightly with a gentle hand, lets it rest just behind his elbow (jumps slightly at the unfamiliar touch, tension throughout his limbs, spine – fight or flight (stop it)).

“The wrapping doesn’t really need to be a big ordeal, you know,” Emily says, smiling up at him (eyes crinkling, sincerity, warmth, no trace of mockery). “It’s the thought that counts,” she continues (cliché, meaningless), “and the fact that you’re together – that’s what you’re really celebrating, right?”

“I— Yes.” He blinks down at her, caught off-guard (unexpected accuracy, precision, concise and intuitive in a way entirely outside of Sherlock’s own skill set – impressive (ignores the sly grin Harry directs at him)).

“Well then, it doesn’t really matter what it’s wrapped in, does it? Though it would be a bit anticlimactic to not wrap it at all – it’s the surprise of the thing that’s tradition,” she adds, and actually _winks_ at him (tone and mannerisms playful, gentle, as if imparting a trade secret – _Gift Giving for Dummies_ ).

“Right. Fine.” He looks away, back at the garishly shining paper and ribbons, ignores Harry shaking her head, chuckling at him as she reaches for a small giftbox (white, thin cardboard, the sort as might be used for packaging small articles of clothing or baked goods).

“What did you get for John, anyway?” Emily asks.

“This,” Harry supplies, pulling the picture frame Sherlock chose on the raid out of the backpack on her shoulder to show the other woman. She grins, almost conspiratorial, apparently amused by her brother’s sentimental attachment to such an object, “He’s got a picture in need of a frame in his room, so we thought—” Harry stops abruptly, eyes blinking wide, before shoving the frame back into the bag, “Oh! Oh shit, of course – I’ve just— I’ll be right back!” And she takes off again, disappearing into the residential hall once more.

Sherlock takes a single step as if to follow her, stops, indecision freezing him in place (doesn’t trust Harry not to do something unseemly, embarrassing, insinuations concerning his and John’s relationship that are nowhere near the truth, only drives the wedge in further between them, incorrigible, thinks she’s _hilarious_ – can’t follow, though, not if she’s going up to John’s bedroom as he suspects (retrieving the photograph while John’s out, putting it into the frame before enclosing it in its box and wrapping, obvious, would be a relatively pointless gift without it), can’t undermine the Plan, the point of all of this, even if this is stolen time, _his_ time, can’t put the entirety of Stage Three at risk by intruding—)

Emily makes the decision for him: “Why don’t you pick out a card to go with the present?” she suggests, smiling up at him again. “We can finish the wrapping when she gets back.”

He glances over at the table again – there’s a shoebox piled high with mundane greeting cards, picked from among the romantic Valentine’s collections and general purpose, year-round availability, none even remotely applicable to the current season. “What for?”

“Well, you could write some sort of personal message in it – what his friendship means to you, or how nice it is to have Christmas together again since you two were apart for so long.”

“Obviously I understand the _purpose_ of a—” he starts to snap, but Emily is still smiling placidly up at him (hint of steel behind pleasantness – _do you really want to do that when I’ve been nothing but nice to you?_ ) He closes his mouth, looks down at the cards again. “They’re all...” (Ugly, common, obvious, garish, tasteless, trite, _wrong_.) He trails off, leaves it hanging, deflated.

“Here,” Emily says, grasping his elbow again, “we’ve got some plain ones too, if that helps.” She directs him toward the far end of the table, indicates a smaller box hidden behind the others, containing leaves of simple, ivory cardstock, unadorned but for a slight embossed pattern around the edges. She looks back up at him. “Will that do?”

( _what could he possibly write, how could he ever locate the proper phrase, the appropriate wording to encapsulate quiet evenings with the rain drizzling down outside, cups of tea nudged pointedly up next to his elbow, muffled giggles over multiple murders, steady hands pulling stitches closed under the yellow washroom light, a set of footsteps pounding after his own, half a pace behind and quick – and then the loneliness, inescapable, the long nights in empty safehouses, entire conversations carried on one-sided, a joke or observation or exclamation dying on his tongue when he looked over and remembered that he was alone in this, the longing, the aching for London, for Baker Street, for home, for **John** —_)

He swallows. Nods. “Yes. All right.” And reaches to pull out the top leaf from the stack.

He’s sitting at the dining table when Harry returns, card spread open in front of him and biro pen in hand (in his right hand, still shaky, easily fatigued, but operational, at last, finally), dropping a word or two here and then crossing them out, starting anew. He doesn’t look over, doesn’t pay her any mind, needs to get this _right_ (only slight curiosity over the subject of John’s precious photograph: most likely candidates are army mates, university contemporaries, family members (in that order), the sort of pictures John used to keep in a shoebox on the top shelf of his wardrobe at Baker Street, glossy images fraying around the edges, memories from childhood and his early adult years, actual developed film, dating back to before the advent and popularisation of digital formats, online sharing, social media – the subject is immaterial to Sherlock’s purposes, though: it’s the thought that counts, as Emily had so succinctly put it, the thought that Sherlock cares at all for something that is, apparently, important to John, sentiment, gestures – not his area).

“Do you want to pick the wrapping paper?” Emily asks, touching his (left) shoulder lightly (behind her, at the other table, Harry has filled a small box with white tissue paper and placed the frame in its centre, is slotting a thin, matching cardboard lid down into place).

“Don’t care,” he mumbles, not looking up. She pats his shoulder and moves away again (consults with Harry (laughs at something Harry says), eventually selects a print, cuts it to size, chats amiably while securing it in place with sellotape) – Sherlock focuses his attention on the writing before of him.

Multiple false starts – lines upon lines scratched out, none of the words cooperating, not what he wants to say (not what he _can_ say). The card is filling up, he’ll need to get a new one, but perhaps he can at least work out what to write here first—

_I missed you_

He stares at the words, dark ink drying into ivory. They stare back at him.

He bites his lip. Adds, _every day._

And then snaps the card closed. Knows the ink will have smeared. Can’t be helped.

He rises from his chair, selects a new, blank card from the stack, which he attaches to the top of the gift when Harry and Emily have finished fussing over its wrapping.

Inside, it reads merely, _To John, From Sherlock, Happy Christmas_.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His face is half-covered by his arm still, but John can make out a tiny curl of a smile just at the corner of his lips – like being told he’s an idiot who risks his life to prove he’s clever, like asking about dinner at arse-o-clock in the morning, like the beginnings of a truly beautiful partnership._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry (almost) Christmas, everyone. Enjoy ;)

Christmas day dawns bright and chilly. There’s a near palpable thrill in the air when John exits his room, a collective held breath hanging over the castle in anticipation of the long-awaited holiday. John had half-expected to find Sherlock on the other side of his door when he came out, all but bouncing off the walls with impatience and excitement, so often disdainful of ordinary human rituals and yet so like a child at other times, unguarded and utterly honest in his enthusiasm. But the hallway is, for now, free of consulting detectives.

The others are coming out of their quarters as well, exchanging eager smiles and Christmas greetings as they make their way downstairs, and John is easily carried along in their wake. Harry is just emerging from her room when John reaches the ground floor, mouth yawning wide and arms pulled above her head in a bone-popping stretch.

“Morning,” she addresses John when he draws even with her, dropping her arms and adding with a smile, “Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas,” John replies, and glances over at the still closed door across from his sister’s.

Harry greets a few of their companions as they pass, then leans around the doorway into the great hall after them to survey the gathering so far. “Doesn’t look like his highness has made an appearance yet,” she says, looking back at John with a meaningful nod toward Sherlock’s room.

John snorts, shaking his head fondly, and crosses the narrow width of the corridor to the door opposite. Harry flashes him a quick grin before stepping out to join the group in the great hall.

He knocks softly, knuckles echoing dully on wood, then calls, “Sherlock? Are you awake?”

There’s no vocal response, but John hears sudden movement within – a body jerking awake, thrashing once in bed, lying still again. After a beat of silence, Sherlock’s voice croaks, “John?”

John purses his lips, tries to keep the concern from his face as he pushes the door open. Sherlock had always been a light sleeper before, instantly alert at the slightest stimulus, often to be found in the morning pacing the sitting room or working away in the kitchen, even when John had seen him go to bed the evening before – plagued by insomnia, John had always suspected, unable to quiet his great churning mind, though the proud bastard would never have admitted to such mortal weaknesses. Compared to then, he’s absolutely sluggish now – partly due to his healing body, but also to what he’s been using to manage his pain during the healing process.

But this is not the time for worrying, or diagnosing – it’s Christmas, after all. This is meant to be a day of joy, of fun, of spending time _together_.

Still, his eyes land on the near-empty bottle of scotch abandoned on the floor next to the bed, and John feels his heart sink a little before he’s able to raise his gaze to his friend’s face. Sherlock is half-upright on the bed, propped on his left arm and blankets twisted around his legs, blinking and squinting up at John.

Schooling his features, John steps inside and lets the door swing closed behind him. “Feeling all right?” he asks gently, approaching the bed, mindful of the likely pounding sensation going on in his friend’s head, in addition to the chronic pain of his shoulder.

Sherlock grunts, flopping onto his back once more and raising one arm to cover his eyes. The motion pulls at his sleep shirt, exposing a slice of pale skin above the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, looking soft and rumpled and warm, looking like a perfect invitation to spend the entire day in bed.

“Do you, uh,” John has to clear his throat, clear those thoughts from his head as he stops beside Sherlock’s supine form. “Do you want to come out and have breakfast with everyone? We’re going to start opening the gifts soon, I think.”

Sherlock hums noncommittally and doesn’t move.

“I got you a present,” John says then, and can’t seem to keep the hopeful little note of teasing from his tone.

“Of course you did,” Sherlock replies, his voice sounding rough, deeper than usual. “It’s Christmas. It is, apparently, the _thing_ to _do_.” His face is half-covered by his arm still, but John can make out a tiny curl of a smile just at the corner of his lips – like being told he’s an idiot who risks his life to prove he’s clever, like asking about dinner at arse-o-clock in the morning, like the beginnings of a truly beautiful partnership. Sherlock’s words might sound disinterested, but his expression is all coy intrigue.

Two can play at that game. John folds his arms, leans back against the bedside table with an air of utter casualness, not a care in the world. “Well? Don’t you want to find out what it is?”

“It’s a book,” Sherlock says with resigned finality, and at last lets his arm fall away from his face to squint up at John once more, that little hint of a smile inhabiting both corners of his mouth now. John feels his own lips quirk up in response. “A set of books,” the detective amends.

John chuckles, shaking his head. “I am not telling you.”

“A chemistry set,” Sherlock says next, pushing himself up to sitting. His hair is a wild disarray, the round neck of his shirt pulling down to one side, exposing a single, sharply defined clavicle above a smooth expanse of skin just barely dusted with freckles. He’s still watching John, eyes narrowed and smile growing increasingly feline with each moment.

“You’ll just have to open it and see.”

“An electron microscope.”

“Nope.”

“A cadaver to experiment on.”

John gives him an amused glare. “Now you’re just guessing completely ridiculous things.”

Sherlock returns the look with a toothy grin. “I never guess.”

John’s opening his mouth to tell him exactly what he thinks of _that_ assertion, warmth and laughter bubbling up from his centre – when the sound of gunfire snaps through the air, and a voice outside yells, “ _Incoming!_ ”

Sherlock freezes at the noise, his head whipping up, eyes bright and wide and brows rising almost to his fringe. “John,” he breathes, and he is absolutely beaming when his gaze finds John’s again, “you got me a herd of zombies for Christmas!”

John stops, already halfway to the door, his hand instinctively flying to the holster on his hip, blinks at Sherlock a few times. “You... are _mad_.”

Sherlock just grins all the wider, digging his own handgun out of the bedside table drawer and launching himself from the bed and out the door with a familiar shout. “Come on, John!”

John is hot on his heels as they dash outside, pounding down the steps and across the courtyard, following as Sherlock scrambles up one of the ladders – still only in his sock feet, the ridiculous nutter – to the top of the wall. It’s less déjà vu than brilliant familiarity, running up fire escapes and across rooftops, weapon drawn and heading directly into the fight, into danger, as Sherlock looks back at him with eyes dancing, like a kid on Christmas morning – no longer out of place, bit not good, not here, now, not today of all days. John’s answering grin is irrepressible as he takes his place at Sherlock’s side, as they face the oncoming threat together.

It’s not a compact crowd, not a proper herd this time, probably just a few lone wanderers at first, simply drifted a little too close for comfort, and now the noise is drawing more to them, bringing them filtering out of the trees to come lurching toward the castle, moving as fast as their rotting musculature will allow. Still, John gets in a few good hits, nearly empties his clip, and he can’t help stealing glances at Sherlock every couple of seconds, standing there in his jimjams and bed-head, both arms extended on front of him to hold the Sig steady. Sherlock’s eyes flick over to him in between shots, wild and exuberant and so very alive and John can’t seem to wipe the smile off his face, doesn’t actually give a single toss about the fight or the adrenaline rush it brings, not when his real fixation is stood right here beside him, windblown dark hair and white slash of teeth set in a shark’s smile, eyes alight with pure glee, finding, catching, holding John’s gaze one moment at a time, fulfilling all his promises of trouble to last a lifetime, violent death bearing down on them, dangerous and exhilarating and—

And, _Jesus_ , John wants to kiss him, wants to grab him around the waist and pull him down toward John and—

The fight is over, the battlefield before them falling silent once more. Bodies pock the open grassy space beyond the castle walls, unmoving. There’s talk of trying to keep the cleanup quick, brief, but in the end it’s decided it can be left until after the morning’s festivities. People begin to trickle back down into the courtyard, back inside, promising to switch out with the current guards in just a little while, everyone taking shorter shifts today so that no one has to miss the majority of the holiday.

The conversation of the others around them is peripheral at best, outside the focus of John’s attention, centred, always, on his gorgeous, amazing, lunatic of a best friend. “All right?” he asks, licking his lips, still breathing hard and grinning like a maniac.

“Of course,” Sherlock responds, smiling back at John, and only frowns briefly when he drops the magazine out of his gun and finds it only half-full. He’d gone through a clip and a half in the firefight, from what John had seen, his aim still unsteady, every second or third shot wasted on ineffectual hits to body or limb. John nudges Sherlock’s arm with his shoulder, pulls his gaze back to him, tilts his head toward the castle and the rest of their companions.

“Shall we?”

“Oh, I suppose,” Sherlock sniffs, shoving the magazine back into place in the Sig before following John back down the ladder to groundlevel. “Though I’m not sure how you plan to top this, since I can confidently say this is the best Christmas present anyone’s ever given me.”

John laughs, looking up at him. “You do know I didn’t actually arrange this, right?”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock grins.

“Well, now I just have to hope you’re not disappointed with your _real_ gift, after all that,” John says ruefully, climbing the steps back up to the great hall.

Behind him, Sherlock snorts and John thinks he hears, very quietly, something that sounds a bit like, “Not possible.” John wets his lips, smiles to himself, and casts one quick look back at Sherlock as they rejoin the rest of their compatriots.

Yep – the urge to kiss him is still perfectly alive and well.

Several groups have formed in the hall by the time they get there, people breaking off to sit in small clusters around the dining tables or in the new, plush armchairs about the room – a gift to the entire castle, liberated from their abandoned homes in town, along with a multitude of other useable convenience items. There are a lot of odds and ends being revealed from behind brightly-coloured wrapping, small, meaningless presents being exchanged by all, in addition to other, more personal gifts: Winston’s knitted a near-perfect Fourth Doctor scarf for Abigail; Mary is enthusiastically poring over the first of a stack of books in front of her, while, beside her, Kal is presenting his niece with a plastic toy chest filled to the brim with dolls and action men of all shapes and sizes. On the opposite side of the table from them, Harry’s face is turning bright pink as Emily exclaims how much she loves the pretty blue jumper she’s just unwrapped.

This is why they’d decided to go ahead and keep the holiday tradition, frivolous though it might have seemed at first, why John’s so very glad that they did. It’s evidence that life goes on, evidence of the life they’re all building here, new connections and relationships being formed, old ones being strengthened or renewed.

He looks over at Sherlock again, can’t help the small smile he feels on his face, even though the detective’s not looking at him – probably for the best, really.

Sherlock’s eyes are scanning the remaining gifts scattered under the tree, brows drawing together and a frown beginning to crease his face – even when the addressee’s name isn’t clearly visible from here, he can probably tell who each is from and who it’s intended for by the creases in the paper, the placement of bows and ribbon and card – can tell, of course, that none of them are John’s gift to him. “Where’s—?”

“Upstairs,” John answers, his smile widening. Then, at Sherlock’s affronted look, “I couldn’t exactly leave it out in the open where you could deduce it in seconds.”

“John Watson,” Sherlock pronounces, turning a narrow-eyed, mock glare on him, “I am beginning to doubt you’ve got me anything at all.”

“And just two minutes ago you were singing my praises over bringing you zombies,” John chuckles, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure there are few other gifts around here for you. I’ll just run up and get mine and be right back.” He squeezes Sherlock’s arm briefly before pulling away – and, Christ, the urge to lean up and peck a kiss on his cheek as John leaves is nearly irresistible. He manages to turn away toward the residential hall without incident, though, but still catches the knowing smirk Harry shoots his way as he passes. He shakes his head, ignoring her, and makes his way upstairs.

John hadn’t been joking earlier: he’d honestly hoped to keep Sherlock from peeking or otherwise deducing what his gift was before the time came, though he hadn’t actually thought that hiding it in his room would be all that effective. It was a miracle he’d even been able to smuggle it into the castle, much less keep it a secret all this time. Sherlock had always barged into any room he liked back at Baker Street, John’s bedroom and the flat’s single loo included, regardless of whether or not they were occupied or even locked, privacy and personal boundaries be damned. But, thinking on it now as he enters his room, John’s not sure Sherlock’s ever been up to his new bedroom, not even once in all his time so far at the castle.

Well, maybe it’s only been while John was out, or distracted with some other task around the castle. Sherlock’s certainly had plenty of time left to his own devices here inside while he’s healed, and it’s in no way beyond him to enter a room and leave not a trace of his presence behind. There had been times, for instance, back in 221B, when John had returned home to find Sherlock sat in the living room with John’s computer on his lap, the computer he knew he’d left charging on his desk upstairs, behind a locked bedroom door – which Sherlock more often than not relocked behind himself, after pillaging whatever he wanted from amongst John’s things and replacing everything he didn’t need just as it was, as if that consideration somehow lessened the offense of the theft.

But then, there’s nothing really of value to Sherlock up here now, no laptop to steal, no experiments he’s running that inexplicably require the commandeering of John’s clothing or other belongings – nothing but the Christmas gift, which, going by his reaction this morning, _is_ something he’s at least somewhat interested in. And it’s not as if the gift is even all that well hid – it’s stuck back under John’s bed, with only his old army rucksack blocking it from view, possibly the most obvious hiding spot in the world. Easy enough for a hyper-observant genius to sniff out.

John crouches next to the bed, frowning, drops onto his knees. Sherlock _had_ been excited about it... hadn’t he? He thinks back on their exchange in Sherlock’s room downstairs, coming to wake him up, Sherlock all sleep-warm and soft, smiling slowly up at John. Maybe... No, he _had_ been, he’d been immediately intrigued – but not until after John had mentioned it, not until he’d outright told him he had a gift for Sherlock.

Could Sherlock have actually thought John wasn’t going to get him anything at all?

He chews his lip, leaning forward to stick one arm into the dark space under his bed, pushing the half-filled rucksack aside to reach for the box behind. Maybe it just hadn’t occurred to Sherlock to expect a gift from John, or from anyone else for that matter – social conventions were generally only considered ‘Sherlock’s area’ insofar as they helped him get information or supplies for a case or an experiment, and obviously neither of those applied here.

But... it had occurred to him to get _John_ a gift. Not just occurred to him, like an idle afterthought, but something Sherlock had planned out and had apparently even gone to Harry for help with. It was something he’d put _thought_ into – so why on earth wouldn’t he think John would do the same?

John finds the corner of the box, and he slides his hand across the top of it to reach for the back edge and pull it out – but halfway across, his fingers hit something else, something sitting on top of the giftbox, right in the centre, that hadn’t been there the last time John had checked on it. It’s some bit of cloth, feels like, in a plastic bag. Must just be something that had fallen out of his rucksack the last time he’d moved it, some article of clothing he’d picked up in a shop somewhere and hadn’t yet bothered to take out of its packaging. He shakes his head, brushes it aside, pulls the box out.

It’s not as if John had _wanted_ Sherlock to discover his present before Christmas, of course. Even boxed up and wrapped as it is, he has no doubt that Sherlock will be able to deduce what’s inside it with a single look, probably without even having to touch it first. He can admit, though, that a part of him might have been looking forward just a bit to a little game of come-up-with-ever-more-creative-hiding-places, like they’d done before, whether it was John’s porn, or Sherlock’s cigarettes, or emails to John’s girlfriends. But the idea that Sherlock hadn’t even bothered looking sits heavy in John’s stomach, the idea that, for some reason, Sherlock hadn’t believed John would put the same time and care into exchanging gifts as Sherlock had, that he’d thought John might not have got him any present at all. It’s... uncomfortable, to say the least.

John lifts the lid of the box away – top and body wrapped separately, prior to putting the gift inside, like his mum had used to do sometimes when he was a kid, so there’s no tearing of paper necessary, and, most importantly, no jostling of the box’s contents. It’s not just that Sherlock hadn’t come snooping around for his present, either, John realises, frowning down at the sleek black case nestled inside the box. It’s that Sherlock has _never_ come up here, not to wake John up at some ungodly hour, or to berate him about being bored, or to steal random objects from his possession, or to jabber away on some obscure train of thought that John can barely follow – nothing, nothing at all, not once since he’s been back.

Two years ago, John would have laughed in the face of anyone who told him he’d _miss_ that – not the invasion of privacy itself, it’s not like John gets off on his flatmate bursting into the room when he’s trying to piss or anything like that – but, the rest of it, the sense of domesticity, of unity that had come with it, a sort of unspoken ‘what’s yours is mine’ agreement between them. It hadn’t only been Sherlock nicking John’s things, after all, contrary to how most people seemed to view them – John had seen enough pitying looks from the Yarders or the staff at Bart’s to know what people assumed about their relationship, but what they didn’t see was that Sherlock often gave as freely as he took. His mobile, his computer, his time and attention: he certainly wasn’t gaining anything relevant to his Work from watching James Bond films with John. Hell, Sherlock had shared his money with John almost without thought, whether it was for the shopping or taxis or anything else. John had learned after a few months at Baker Street to stop worrying if he could pay exactly half the rent from his own current account, and they’d practically had joint banking by the time they’d been living together a year – and John certainly wasn’t the one bringing in the lion’s share of their income.

It’s that sharing that John misses most, he thinks now, that sense of, well, of _privacy_ , not from each other, obviously, but from everyone else, from the rest of the world, the feeling that they could close the door on the assumptions and assaults of all the prying eyes around them, that it could be just the two of them, working and living in harmony no matter what anyone else thought of them or their arrangement. It’s the home that they’d created there at Baker Street, sometimes loud or sulky or filled with noxious fumes, but theirs, theirs and no one else’s. That’s what John misses, what’s so glaringly evident in the way that Sherlock has, apparently, still been keeping his distance from John now.  

He sighs, reaches in to run a hand over the top of the case before moving to the brass fasteners on the front. John had had some trouble finding a container big enough to hold it, and as it is the case has to sit diagonally across the bottom of the box, rounded edges just brushing straight cardboard sides. He’s able to undo the clasps easily enough, though, has grown quite familiar with these careful actions over the last week. He’d managed to find a book for beginners, had read up on the fundamentals of care and maintenance, what things he could do himself and what he should leave to an expert, what supplies to gather and keep with it, how to make sure it was at least in basic working order before he gave it to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s still keeping John at arm’s length, it would seem, keeping out of John’s way, out of his personal space – almost as if he’s unsure of his place here. He’d gone out of his way to get John a gift, but hadn’t seemed to expect one in return.

Well. He’ll just have to fix that, John thinks with a mental nod, finishing his inspection of the gift, and closes the case, snapping the clasps back down into place, at last replacing the lid of the box.

John had had a breakthrough, sure – maybe he isn’t completely _over_ Sherlock’s disappearance, his faked suicide – there are just some things that can never be forgotten, some memories that will never be wiped clean, things he can’t unsee – but he is, at least, no longer angry about it, no longer angry _with Sherlock_ about it. They’ve been better, _John_ has been better, since then – but maybe he’s the only one who’s really been aware of it. Sherlock has been warming to him again, slowly, has welcomed John’s company any time it’s been offered, but—

But he hasn’t come to poke around in John’s personal space whenever he’s bored, or curious, or agitated, or lonely.

Despite all evidence to the contrary, John knows Sherlock can’t _actually_ read his mind. Especially when it comes to things like this, things having to do with messy, insubstantial emotions, that leave comparatively few clues to follow and have little hard evidence to support their analysis or interpretation. So, John will just have to be a bit more obvious about it, will have to make sure the evidence is plain as day for him, about just how welcome and appreciated and wanted Sherlock is – and, he thinks, securing to the top of the box the large, red bow he’d set aside for just this purpose, this gift, which John _has_ put rather a lot of effort and thought into, is a pretty damn good place to start.

John makes his way back downstairs, gift in hand, and is glad to see not too much has changed in the time he took to work through his thoughts: a few people are missing now, a few others in their places, switched out so that the previous shift of guards could come inside and enjoy a bit of holiday cheer, the atmosphere in the room still overwhelmingly one of joy and relaxation.

Sherlock is sitting at the table with Harry, Emily, Kal, and Mary, and there are, indeed, a fair number of small, opened presents on the table in front of him, just as John has predicted. In the detective’s hands is a big, antique magnifying glass, from Harry, if John recalls correctly; an assortment of books are stacked around him, from probably Emily, Mary, maybe a few others; and – oh dear god – a deerstalker hat sits at his elbow, ignored. John can’t decide if he’s relieved or disappointed to have missed whatever hell Sherlock had unleashed on whoever gave him that hat.

Sherlock’s eyes light up when John comes into view – John swallows, smiles through the jitters in his stomach – and then widen when he takes in the large box in John’s arms. “John...”

Harry helpfully sweeps aside the other gifts, clearing a space on the table for John to set the box down in front of Sherlock before sinking into the empty seat on his other side. All eyes in their little gathering are focused on Sherlock now, and John can’t help noting the new, dry set of socks on his friend’s feet under the table and the fresh, minty tang in the air around him. Clean socks and cleaned teeth, but his hair is still completely untamed, and he still seems content to lounge about in his pyjamas. John licks his lips, smiling implacably. “Well,” he prompts, “go on.”

He half expects Sherlock to launch into a litany of observations and deductions about the box, the paper it’s wrapped in, John’s gait as he’d entered the room – but instead, he only throws John one wild, wide-eyed look before snatching the lid off the box and looking hungrily inside.

Sherlock’s mouth drops open. His eyes, if possible, seem to grow even wider. “John!”

“I spotted it in one of the houses in town,” John says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck and grinning uncontrollably now as Sherlock lifts the violin case out of the box. It’s met with sounds of approval and admiration from their gathered friends. “I know it’s not as nice as your old one—”

“It’s perfect,” Sherlock cuts him off, before he’s even got the case properly open. He glances sidelong at John then, barely meeting his gaze, one of those small, almost shy smiles on his face before he turns to inspect the instrument before him. “It’ll need to be tuned, of course,” he goes on then, deep voice rumbling out, full of confidence once more, comfortable in his element again, “but it’s been well-cared for. A hobbyist, it would seem, rather than a performer. Relatively inexpensive, as these things go, but something she would have saved for, and cherished once she was able to purchase it.”

“She?” John asks, quirking an eyebrow. Around them, the others are beginning to drift away, returning to their own gifts and conversations, leaving John and Sherlock to theirs.

Sherlock smirks. “Oh, yes,” he says, and takes a deep breath before beginning. John makes sure to exclaim in all the right places and to tell Sherlock just how amazing he is as he launches into the explanation of everything he knows about his new violin and its previous owner.

Neither of them can seem to stop smiling.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Standing about under the mistletoe,” John’s voice says beside him, soft and smiling, “someone might think you were waiting to be kissed.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so, sooo sorry about this chapter, guys. I had intended to have it up on Christmas eve, but between travel preparations and then spending the holiday week with my family, it just didn't come together. It's still Christmas until New Year's, though, right? ;)
> 
> And as always, Glasscannon and Madam_Mary deserve all the awards for their cheerleading and just for putting up with me all this time.

Sherlock is amazing. _John_ thinks Sherlock is amazing.

John always thinks Sherlock is amazing (no, _wrong_ , sometimes John isn’t impressed with Sherlock, sometimes he’s amazing but in not good ways, sometimes he says or does things that he _thinks_ are going to be amazing but then people get angry and then John is angry and everything is _not good_ —)

But John thinks he’s amazing now. The good sort of amazing. Everything is good now.

Right now, John is smiling at him, glowing, crow’s feet crinkling around his eyes, so very pleased with himself and with Sherlock’s reaction to his gift, to the violin – which, really, _is_ quite a marvellous gift, even when viewed only objectively (subjectively: unreliable analysis by definition, best not to pursue).

Sherlock had not given (not allowed himself to give) much thought to what John might give him today, nothing beyond the mere fact that mutual gift giving was the custom, was expected, and to do otherwise would be considered rude, ungrateful, careless, and John was rarely, if ever, any of those things.

If he _had_ given any mental space over to it, Sherlock might have supposed that John’s gift would be something smallish, practical, but with a hint toward their shared history, such as the deerstalker (infuriating but permissible had it come from John, reminiscent of a private joke, free of any true mocking (because John isn’t _like_ that); would have been set ablaze or else its functionality as a death frisbee immediately tested had it been from Anderson (who has been staunchly ignoring Sherlock’s presence for the past weeks and seems to have redoubled his efforts today, thank god); actually annoying (but one of those things that John always insisted he be polite about, so Sherlock had been (somewhat) polite) when the box containing the hat had been very shyly handed to him by the twenty-year-old blonde woman who had recently arrived in the castle with her almost-twenty-year-old boyfriend-cum-husband (dating at university, married by a vicar on the road after the outbreak, showing preliminary signs of pregnancy, though stress and diet make early miscarriage (more) likely), who had then stammered some gibberish about her being a huge fan of Sherlock’s and of John’s blog and how she had never believed what the papers said about him and it was such an honour to meet him, before scurrying away again (he had _tried_ to be polite)).

The hat, a hideous (likely holiday-themed) jumper, some terrible spy or detective novel, token items speaking of humour with a slight nod to their friendship over the years and how well John knows all of Sherlock’s many pet peeves, any of these things he would have _expected_ to receive from John today.

Instead, John had got him a violin, a well cared for, relatively good quality one (or it will be once Sherlock has tuned it) – which only serves to further reinforce the fact that Sherlock will never cease to be surprised by John Watson, because, apparently, such a deeply personal and rather extravagant gift as this, as well as the giving of it in public, was somehow _not_ disqualified by John’s otherwise entirely pragmatic and generally frugal nature (irrelevant that it was scavenged rather than purchased – a musical instrument bears no practical value for survival, besides as kindling, or possibly using the strings for snares or garrottes (metal strings, not gut, higher than median quality but not enormously expensive, adequate tensile strength for strangulation of most mid-sized mammals including humans, but worthless against the undead)).

And John had _meant_ for the violin to be a personal gift, to be _special_ , that much is obvious as John sits here smiling at him and being amazed by Sherlock’s deductions, by Sherlock. Not only is it an entirely luxury item, but his old violin, and the playing of it, was something that had existed solely within the confines of 221B Baker Street. It had not been, strictly speaking, a secret, but it had also not been highly advertised, mentioned occasionally in John’s blog but never fully shared, a thing that was kept private, that most wouldn’t know or wouldn’t understand how it related to Sherlock (unlike his career and general interest in science and criminology, clearly the inspiration behind the magnifying glass, the various textbooks he’s received, that damn hat).

(There was a certain way that John would look at him, before, when Sherlock found himself overwhelmed by frustration, hatred (loneliness), when words fled before him and contact of either eye or skin was unbearable, and he would wring terrible noises from his violin, the only outlet left to him. When it was violent and screeching, he often succeeded in driving John from the flat, sent him in search of pints and mates and football (a friendly woman’s lilo), calm, _normal_ things, ensured he stayed away until late into the night or sometimes the next morning, always wary and exasperated when he did return. But other times, when the sounds coming from beneath Sherlock’s bow were sorrowful and slow, maudlin, a personal funeral march, then sometimes John would _look_ at him, would watch him with something on his face that seemed somewhat similar to worry and very much like pain (sympathy, or possibly empathy, was the accurate term for that, John was capable of _empathizing_ with Sherlock, Sherlock was capable of being empathised with, by John, to some degree, at least). No one else ever listened to Sherlock play like that; no one else ever _looked_ at Sherlock like that.)

He is confident in his assessment of the previous owner’s obvious care and feeling toward the instrument, of course, but what is even more interesting are the signs of more _recent_ attention, which he doesn’t hesitate to point out to John: neck and body carefully wiped clean of dust and detritus that would have accumulated over the months since it was abandoned; commercial violin polish applied to the wood, avoiding the amateur mistake of furniture polish or, worse, water; bow properly loosened but lately rubbed with rosin, slightly too much but nothing that can’t be easily rectified.

John’s ears have gone pink. He’s still smiling, grinning broadly, almost trying to smother it, like it’s making his cheeks hurt, the tip of his tongue darting out to wet his lips every minute or so. Sherlock hasn’t said that he knows it was John who cared for the violin, but John’s reaction to Sherlock’s words is ample confirmation.

John had certainly seen Sherlock handle and play his violin often enough at Baker Street, but he’d rarely, if ever, laid a hand on it himself, had never taken part in its maintenance or otherwise indicated in any way that he was familiar with stringed instruments (a mention once that John had learned to play the clarinet in his younger years, though Sherlock has never yet ascertained whether this was a sincere statement (unlikely: John has terrible musical rhythm and even hums off-key) or the use of a euphemism of which Sherlock had subsequently become aware (possible: ‘Four Continents’ is not a moniker gained by a shrinking violet, but someone practiced and confident and very much _not_ what Sherlock wishes to concentrate on)). Despite his clear ignorance on the subject, John has done unexpectedly well in preparing this violin to be delivered to Sherlock, in making it at least look, if not sound, presentable.

Conclusion: upon acquiring the violin, John had then sought to educate himself in at least the most basic tenets of its care and handling, which required quite a bit more time and effort than strictly necessary (no internet, had to find books, the right book, to guide him; far more thought than, say, finding a deerstalker in a shop and throwing it in a box).

Underscoring this point as well are John’s nervous mannerisms as Sherlock had opened the gift and his subsequent, self-conscious allusion to Sherlock’s previous violin (hand-crafted, exorbitantly expensive as compared to this one, bought for him as a youth by his parents, when he’d outgrown the smaller, learning models of his childhood, void of sentimental attachment save for the mere fact of having been in his possession for so many years, having been an extension of himself, a mouthpiece when his own tongue failed him (when he was swept up by emotions too strong and complex to parse, emotions he would never be able to tame and that they’d been warned would turn dangerous if not channelled into some artistic, _non-destructive_ task ( _And you simply had to prove them right, didn’t you?_ Mycroft’s voice sighs in the back of his mind, and Sherlock can taste the cocaine in his veins, can feel the needle prick against tissue-thin skin))).

Sherlock does not, as a rule, form attachments to inanimate objects, beyond mere aesthetic or tactile preference, defends what is his not out of some misguided sense of protectiveness or sentimentality but because it is _his_. Over the course of their friendship, though, objects associated with John Watson have proven somewhat more difficult (impossible) to detach himself from (when he was even still attempting it, when he was even questioning it).

John is still smiling at him as Sherlock’s deductions wind to an end, his face warm and open and sunny, chin balanced on one upturned palm while his elbow and free hand rest on the tabletop.

“—hence, middle-aged woman, two children off to school, decided to fill in her newly acquired open afternoons with a hobby she’d wished to learn since childhood: playing the violin.”

“Brilliant!” John says, beaming at Sherlock in delight, wrinkles showing about his eyes and mouth, all pulling upward, speaking of laughter, cheer, delight, smoothing out other, heavier lines in their wake. “Absolutely amazing.” (Sherlock can feel his own answering grin, warmth spreading across his cheeks, the back of his neck, unsteady sensation in his stomach (doesn’t need to ask if John really thinks so).)

Harry chooses that exact moment to poke him hard in the back (spoils _everything_ ) from her seat on Sherlock’s other side. “Are you done pontificating? Or did you just forget that John’s supposed to get a present too?”

“Harry,” John admonishes, frowning.

“I did not _forget!_ ” Sherlock snaps over his shoulder, twisting away from her. “If it’s so urgent, why don’t _you_ —” _Why don’t you get it yourself, or do you need my help reading the card or identifying the gift?_ was what he was going to say, but when Sherlock glances at John again, John is looking at him with cautious hope, anticipation, eager smile smothered into a thin line as the tip of his tongue peeks between his lips _._

Right.

He sets the violin carefully back in its case, rises slowly from his seat to approach the tree. The point of this, Sherlock must remind himself, is the _sentiment_ , the acknowledgement of. Human connection, not with everyone around him of course, but with _John_ , or at least the impression of such. That is the reason for this exercise, this bowing to social customs and holiday traditions, usually so trite and meaningless, but worth it in this instance, in this short, fleeting time with John, worth the effort in order to perhaps preserve something of what they’ve shared for the future. It is not only for John to tell Sherlock that _he_ is amazing; it is to ensure that John knows that the feeling is mutual. 

He finds the gift tucked under the lowest boughs of the bedecked conifer, most of the surrounding space by now cleared as the other presents have been claimed. It’s just as it was several days ago (dimly recalled, barely paying attention at the time), ivory card and (clashing) white bow, both attached atop solid dark red, matte paper (surprisingly tasteful (Emily’s influence, not Harry’s)).

The box fits easily between his two palms, the same dimensions as ever and yet somehow less than he remembers, less than he’d intended, sending an unfamiliar ripple through Sherlock’s viscera (sudden alarm, nervousness, trepidation – _not_ feelings he suffers, not allowed, Sherlock is not _shy_ , fearful, is not cowed by others’ meaningless opinions of him – but the violin was such a magnificent gift, grand and unanticipated and perfect, whereas this is... small. This gift is _common_ (failed before he’s even begun)).

He can only stall for so long, though, only so many paces between the table and the Christmas tree and back again. John and Harry are both watching him (no chance of escape), and the fact, the existence, of the gift is a known quantity already, has been since he brought it back from the raid, since Harry announced to John and the world what the two of them had been doing, what the purpose of that raid had been. (No turning back, long past the point of no return.)

John accepts the box with a warm smile and a quiet, “Thank you,” calloused fingers brushing lightly (casually, unintentionally, familiarly) over Sherlock’s as it changes hands. (Same smile as those offered on the (rare) occasions that Sherlock had made him tea after a long, tedious day at the surgery (especially if with little or no prompting); or when he’d played John’s favourite pieces (Tchaikovsky, Mozart, some Vivaldi) in the wake of nightmares war-torn and blood-soaked and bullet-riddled; when Sherlock was kind to a distraught witness, to a victim, whenever Sherlock had deigned to show any consideration for his fellow humans – connection, sentiment, emotion, the things that are important to John, things he appreciates, things Sherlock needs to prove now.)

“I suppose it’s a bit small to be a head,” John quips, pauses to read the card’s short message with another smile (doesn’t see the anxious wince Sherlock can’t quite suppress as he resumes his seat, hopes John isn’t truly thinking of their gifts’ relative sizes, the insignificance of this one in comparison). “Could be a severed hand, I suppose.”

“Or a pint of milk,” Sherlock drawls (insecurities quashed for the moment, hidden through sheer force of will, silenced), and John laughs, his gaze flicking back up to Sherlock’s face as he removes the bow from the top of the present and begins to tear into the paper.

“Never could get you to do the shopping. It would be a true Christmas miracle,” John agrees, and pulls the last of the red from the outside of the box. “And now, of course, we have more powdered milk than we could ever possibly need.”

“Or want.”

John is still grinning, nods as he finds the edges of the box’s lid, works it up and off. Wisps of cushioning paper inside block its contents from view until John reaches in and pulls it free, letting out a low sound as it comes into view.

Sherlock sucks in a breath, throat suddenly tight, lungs frozen, stomach in mutiny.

The frame is simple, elegant, minimalist lines in brushed steel, a dark, gunmetal grey colour, surprisingly weighty in his hand when Sherlock had first picked it up off the shelf in the shop – solid, understated strength. Perfect for John.

Its functionality as a picture frame is where the sentimental aspect had come into it: a sturdy protector for whatever memory was represented in the photograph John had so cherished as to carry with him all this time, past the end of the world. Sherlock had supposed it to be an image of friends, family, army mates highly likely, snapshots of life in a warzone, people or an event that speaks deeply to the fundamental core of John, that had shaped and influenced the man he’s become, now encased and displayed as it ought to be – a gesture meant to communicate on Sherlock’s behalf, to imply support and fellowship, that what is important to John is important to Sherlock by extension, even if it divides John’s attention, even if it means John’s not focused on him, _on_ _Sherlock_.

Except – it _is_ him.

He’s not seen the photo before, hadn’t paid it any attention when Harry had retrieved it from John’s room, sure that the picture’s subject was irrelevant to the larger message (a grave oversight, he realises now). It’s printed on heavy, glossy, durable paper (the type used in classical film development but rarely bothered with now in the digital age (intended to be framed, viewed (kept, held))). Shot on a mobile phone with a relatively high-resolution camera lens, a user with a steady hand. Not in any way difficult to deduce the photographer given the angle and the placement of people in the room at the time (John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, John’s girlfriend (boring teacher, Jeanette, process of elimination), asking him to play carols on his violin for them, Mrs Hudson brandishing felt antlers on a headband like a weapon). Printed out and given to John at some later date (not that Christmas or in the following few months, would have been framed and displayed proudly in Baker Street had that been the case, an easy reference point for jokes, “humanising” him as John so often said of his blog, Sherlock would have _seen_ it, would have _known_ of its existence before this moment, wouldn’t have been blindsided now—)

(Could be a trick by Harry, in line with her previous insinuations of romance, mocking, suggestive comments, sexual innuendos, discomfiting John, driving him away, driving a wedge between them, serving only to point out all that they are _not_.)

But then John breathes out, “Oh, this is lovely,” and traces a thumb over the burnished surface of the frame (eyes centring quickly back on the photo behind the glass, on Sherlock’s face there, softening, crinkling in a smile again – approval not only of the frame itself but also of the image’s subject).

(Of course: Lestrade took the photo and printed it for John after Sherlock had jumped. When John thought Sherlock was dead. (Memories boxed up and hidden away for convenience, moved on, forgotten – but for this one memento.))

John looks over at Sherlock with that same (warm, homely, intimate) smile, and Sherlock hears himself blurt, “It’s only the first half of your gift.”

John blinks, brows rising in surprise, while, behind Sherlock, Harry squawks, “What? You didn’t tell me about that!”

“Because I didn’t need your interference for this part!” he retorts, barely sparing her a glance (John smothering another, far more mischievous grin – amused, enjoys their bickering despite himself). 

“Oh, fine then,” Harry says, pushing to her feet. “But for now, shove over, we’ve got other gifts to open before we’re up for guard duty.”

Sherlock’s gaze snaps back to John, questioning, demanding an answer.

“What— Don’t give me that look,” John says, shaking his head and holding his hands up as if to ward Sherlock off. “It’ll only be for an hour or two, everyone’s taking a turn today – well, everyone but you, of course.”

“What? Why?!” Sherlock bristles. “I am perfectly capable of standing guard!”

John regards him wonderingly. “You don’t actually _want_ to do guard duty, Sherlock,” he says slowly, and one corner of his mouth is pulling up into a knowing smile.

Sherlock scowls, folds his arms. “You’re trying to reverse-psychologise me into volunteering to help.”

“Well, technically, I _did_ just get you to volunteer,” John grins, “but no – it’s just I know you’d get bored almost immediately. Hell, _I_ get bored out there. Plus,” he raises his eyebrows, expression turning stern, voice firm, “you’re still healing. You need to rest, especially after that fight this morning. We can revisit it in a few days if your shoulder’s doing well then.”

“Hmph,” Sherlock turns away as Harry returns with several gifts in her arms, crowing about how she never got to play Father Christmas when she and John were growing up.

John receives three jumpers (two appropriately hideous, one in a deep forest green that might actually suit him), five novels (two murder mysteries, one spy intrigue, one western, and one fantasy, all with insipid premises and unsurprising endings), and a journal bound in fine, dark, maple-coloured leather (a rarity, hand-made, filched from an artisan boutique, not in any of the towns Sherlock’s visited as yet, intended as encouragement for the nascent writing career begun on his blog).

John profusely thanks everyone who gave him the gifts, sharing laughter and handshakes and even a few embraces with their comrades (leaves the table only a scant few times to seek them out though, waits for them to come to him the majority of the time, primarily doesn’t leave Sherlock’s side). Once the social necessities are complete, he stacks his new things carefully in a cardboard box to carry up to his room (with the photo of Sherlock, snug in its frame, on top of all the others).

“Be right back,” he says, giving Sherlock a quick smile as he hefts the box from the table.

John leaves and Sherlock drops to the tabletop with a mighty sigh, arms haphazardly flung about him, sudden morose ennui overtaking him (what has he done, _why_ would he do that, promise a second half to a gift that barely qualifies as such, only one thing he could possibly give John now, Sherlock is an idiot, just like everyone else, overwhelmed and swept away by stupid, unwanted sentiment, impulsive, incorrigible, he never _learns_ ).

He’s face down on the table when Harry wanders by again, glowers venomously at her over the crest of one arm when she pokes him in his good shoulder.

“It’s only a couple of hours,” she says, smirking (as if Sherlock is an utter simpleton, as if he can’t _tell time_ , as if he’s the most _hilarious_ sight she’s ever seen). “I know you miss him already, but I promise you really will survive.”

“Go away!” he snarls, and she shrugs and does so.

John comes back downstairs and pauses next to Sherlock. “I’m heading out to relieve one of the guards now. See you in a little while,” he says, resting a hand on Sherlock’s back, between his shoulder blades, solid and warm.

“Hrmph.”

“You should read through some of those books you got,” John suggests. “Looked pretty interesting.”

“Such as _J. Habakuk Jephson’s Statement_?” he sneers, running a finger along the spine of one thin volume in the pile before him on the table. “A fictionalisation of a famous maritime mystery, not even a proper accounting of the facts. Dull.”

“Don’t be ungrateful,” John chides softly, fingers flexing briefly against the base of Sherlock’s neck (can hear a smile in his voice anyway). “You could tune your violin instead, then.”

“Hm.” He could tune the violin, _should_ tune it, needs to, if he’s going to follow through on the ‘second half’ of this abominable gift as he’d promised John.

“Just don’t sit here and sulk all day,” John says (definitely smiling now), “it’s Christmas.” And with one last light pat, John’s hand falls away, leaving a cold (bare, abandoned, forsaken) patch on Sherlock’s back as John disappears outside.

Sherlock doesn’t move for several minutes, finally tilts his chin up to balance on a point against the wood of the table. Frowns at the books, magnifying glass, horrible hat.

He is not _sulking._

(He might be sulking.)

Sherlock shoves away from the table, considers stomping off and leaving the rest of his (useless, stupid, meaningless) belongings behind, thinks better of it a moment later (knows all too well how quickly personal property can disappear in a group setting like this, gnosiophobia leading the actions of tiny-minded fools, spiteful, hatred for anything they don’t understand, then and now, always, nothing _ever_ changes). He shoves it all in the wrapped box the violin had come in, carries it back to his room, box balanced in one arm and violin case clutched in his other hand, kicks his bedroom door closed behind him.

Can finally breathe again.

The book at the top of the pile is a collection of Greek myths. A gift from Professor Morstan, pleased that Sherlock has taken a recent interest in her area of expertise.

Research. Learning what he needs for the problems directly before him. Nothing more. (Delete later.)

Doesn’t have to worry about that yet, though. He has more immediate concerns, other problems to be addressed first. The violin case opens soundlessly, smoothly under his hands (hinges cleaned and oiled – such care from John, such attention to detail), all the supplies he needs nestled inside. Sherlock tightens the bow, begins plucking at the strings (wildly out of tune, all flat by varying degrees, necessitates adjusting the pegs at the head of the instrument before making use of the fine tuners in the tailpiece). Circumstances require he play softly, _pianissimo_ , _estinto_ , careful draws of the bow so as not to attract the wandering undead.

The instrument warms to him slowly, his own body finding its old rhythms again, muscle memory left long dormant (other skills in high demand then, blade and lockpick and trigger, watching, observing, and only that melody playing in the back of his mind, chords forming unconsciously against an empty palm). Years out of practice, his ear still finds the right pitches, fingers measuring intervals and tones, mathematical, beautiful.

He hadn’t meant to say it to John, hadn’t even thought before speaking. A second half of the gift. _Why_ would he ever suggest such a thing? Foolish, imbecilic. Sherlock could still fix this, cover his mistake, back out, no one the wiser. He could play Christmas carols for the group, jaunty dance tunes, fiddle and folk songs. John would certainly view that as a gift, Sherlock giving to the community, taking part in their festivities. John would like that.

And yet.

His fingers ache with the music they wish to play. He hasn’t _practiced_ it before now, has never actually physically played it – but then, he doesn’t really need to, knows this piece with every atom of his being. Each note and chord and measure is inscribed on pages carefully laid out in the music room of his Mind Palace, repeated so very many times over the last year and a half that it will never be forgotten, too deeply ingrained in his subconscious and conscious mind alike to ever be deleted (not something he would ever _want_ to delete).

It’s perfect. (Like John.) 

There’s a knock at the door. Hours have passed since Sherlock last opened his eyes. John sticks his head inside, says Sherlock missed lunch and the cleanup of the morning’s zombie casualties, asks if he’s going to come out to dinner. Sherlock lowers the violin from his shoulder at last, nods distractedly.

“What was that you were playing?” John asks, loitering in the doorway.

“Nothing,” Sherlock says (too loudly, quickly, sharply, sure to incite suspicion), then, slowly, with greater caution, “How much did you hear?”

“Just the last few strains,” John smiles (suspects, yes, but anticipatory, keen, nearly impatient but enjoying it, savouring the moments of waiting (strange, surprising, delightful man)). “Did you write that?”

(Heroes don’t exist, though John Watson’s existence does occasionally call that conclusion into question.)

“It’s not written down, no,” Sherlock sniffs, knows quite well that he’s picking at semantics (knows it annoys John, knows John puts up with it (most of the time) anyway).

“But you composed it.”

“Not... recently,” Sherlock continues to hedge, fingertips plucking restlessly at the strings, considers replacing the violin in its case but instead keeps it, holds it close before him like a ward.

John is smiling at him from the doorway when Sherlock turns back again (spreading warmth, rays of golden light streaming outward, enveloping them both, suffusing Sherlock’s being, icebergs cracking, melting, dissipating). “You should come have some dinner.”

Sherlock nods again, jerkily, unsteadily, follows John out, brings the violin with him.

The great hall is illuminated by the fire and the hundreds of tiny fairy lights strung about the room, the pillar candles in their customary places along the centre line of the dining tables. The blackout curtains over doors and windows add an element of closeness, intimacy, muffled voices rebounding on cool masonry, recounting Christmases, winters past, friends and family and lovers, those lost and those found.

John moves as if to sit at the table, a few seats down from his sister, from some of the others they can consider friends, from the deep, dark future spreading out beyond this moment, and Sherlock finds he cannot follow, cannot sit there with them. He is frozen in place, rooted to the spot beyond the end of the table with the fire roaring beside him and doing nothing to thaw his suddenly rebelling transport. He cannot move, doesn’t dare to sit, to eat, knows the food will turn to ash in his mouth, will clog his throat and choke him, steal his words, his time, his one opportunity to _do this right_.

John notices, stops, looks back. “Sherlock?”

“I—” John’s brows are rising now (concern, enquiry, patience) as he looks at Sherlock, watches him struggle for words. “It’s the second half of your gift. I’d like to play it. Now.” Sherlock glances about the room, suddenly, painfully aware of the others around them, sitting in little clumps and clusters, eyes turning on him pair by pair, “If that’s all right.”

John blinks, seems to shake himself. “Uh, yes. Of course.” He’s grinning again as he pulls out a nearby chair, sinks into it, turns blue eyes gleaming with firelight up at Sherlock. “Dinner and a serenade, what more could I ask for?”

Sherlock nods abstractedly. No more words necessary now – John is trusting, compliant, quietly faithful. A relief. English has never served Sherlock particularly well, nor any other spoken tongue he’s yet learned, slippery, ill-defined noises, meanings too vague and constricting all at once. So much Sherlock wants to say, needs to say, so much he _can’t_ say.

The violin is a welcoming weight against his shoulder, the bow a long-missed phantom limb.

(The only language in which he has ever been truly fluent.)

He plays.

He doesn’t know how long it goes on, doesn’t keep track of the time in his head, only that it is a rambling, disorderly piece, chaos fraught over a steady beat, a heart that never loses pace, never fails to hit its mark (poison pills, rooftop chases, quiet snowfall, ancient history and the newest tech, myths and science, sunlight and shadows, home after a storm).

The last notes hang in the air for what seems a long while, lingering, ringing, fading at last. Sherlock knows he has to open his eyes eventually (maybe, maybe he doesn’t, maybe he can simply stay here, forever, never move again, never let this night come to an end, never let go, not yet, it’s _too_ _soon_ —)

John’s mouth is hanging open slightly when Sherlock does finally force himself to look. The expression resolves itself into a smile after a few silent moments, still gaping and full of wonder and amazement, but most definitely a smile (sunlight against his skin, darkness parting, falling away, nightmares dismissed). John licks his lips and says, “That was beautiful.”

Sherlock can’t look at him (like staring into the sun). “Thank you,” he replies stiffly, lowering the instrument in his arms. (Scattered applause around them; the room has emptied somewhat, portions of their companions retiring to their beds, a few others remaining, nursing tea and spiced cider, conversing quietly, barely audible over the crackle of the fire at his back).

John takes a breath, “Sherlock—”

“I should put this away,” Sherlock says abruptly, speaking too loudly, talking over John. He doesn’t meet John’s gaze, doesn’t wait for another response, spinning on his heel and dashing to his room. (John doesn’t follow.)

_It’s enough.  
_

The case is still sitting open on his bedspread, the box of other gifts set nearby.

_Enough now._

He’s done what he intended to do.

_It has to be enough._

Sherlock lays the violin carefully down into its soft nest, loosens the bow, tucks it away. Wonders if any of it had translated, if it had been at all intelligible to John, if it was anything more than a collection of frantic, discordant notes splashed together, if it had meant _anything_ , if John had understood (if he wants John to understand or if he wants to erase it all, delete it from his harddrive, forget whatever he thought he might gain from this, whatever memories might possibly be worth this).

He breathes in, out. Closes the case. Straightens.

Sherlock had accomplished what he’d set out to do: Christmas, with John, make it special, make it memorable (make up for all the ones they’ve missed, the ones they will miss). He’d even managed to be (mostly) pleasant to the other people living in the castle (even Harry). From any angle of perspective, this mission can be deemed nothing less than a success.

And now, it’s over. 

Part of him wants to crawl into his bed right this moment, shut the door and block out the lights and never, ever resurface (because then the end won’t really reach him, he can drift and dream and pretend that this moment, this day, will last forever, that this could be the rest of his (their) life).

He finds himself instead wandering out into the hallway again, stopping on the threshold into the great hall, drinking in the sight before him, unwilling to part with it yet, to release the dream of gold lights and warm fire and John beside him happy and inviting and home—

“Standing about under the mistletoe,” John’s voice says beside him, soft and smiling, “someone might think you were waiting to be kissed.”

Sherlock blinks, fog fleeing from his mind, focus snapping back into place, glances sharply up at the doorway above his head and the innocent-looking bunch of leaves hanging there (he’d noted it earlier, obviously, days previous, but had disregarded the information, deemed useless, irrelevant), just as one of John’s arms snakes around the small of Sherlock’s back, hand coming to rest on Sherlock’s hip (gentle pressure, indicative of familiarity, affection, intimacy (even, sometimes, in certain contexts, possessiveness)).

Sherlock looks back down at John, feels himself blinking owlish and confused, and John’s other hand reaches for his jaw, cupping his neck and turning his face and running fingers along the shell of his ear, dipping into his hair. “John—?”

“I just wanted to say thank you,” John breathes, and he is already balanced on the balls of his feet, leaning in, up, “for all of this.” He smiles softly, licks his lips, and then he’s rising the last few centimetres, lessening the difference in their heights, eyes falling closed and lips pressing together and puckering and pushing forward to connect with Sherlock’s—

(Skin on skin, slightly chapped, slightly moist, so very warm (thawing, melting, overwhelming.))

—cheek.

The kiss is simple. Chaste. Platonic. Over far too quickly.

“Thank you,” John murmurs again, the words brushing lightly against Sherlock’s skin as John pulls back, sinks slowly to his usual height. Midnight blue eyes glide open again, the rueful, indulgent, perfect smile that Sherlock knows (loves) so well pulling John’s mouth up at the corners. “For all of this,” John continues, glances around to indicate the room, the gifts, the lights, everything. “It was— really marvellous.” He grins up at Sherlock, crow’s feet sprouting around his eyes, smile lines in his cheeks. “A really wonderful Christmas.”

Sherlock can only gawp at him.

“Well. I’m knackered. But you should go eat something,” John says then, nodding back toward the dining hall, as if this is any other day, as if this is entirely normal. “And don’t stay up too late.” He raises his brows in stern warning, but his smile is wry now (remembering myriad such admonishments delivered in vain in years past, knows Sherlock will sleep when he’s tired, when he _allows_ himself to be tired (doesn’t know how bone-weary Sherlock is now, how he wishes for sleep and oblivion and dreams, for this moment preserved forever)). The hand on Sherlock’s hip squeezes once, briefly, before letting go, the other at his jaw slipping gently away, and then John is turning, departing, disappearing into the gloom of the stairwell.

Sherlock doesn’t follow him, doesn’t try to stop him or call him back.

He breathes out, in. Slow. Controlled.

_Enough._

Sensation of falling. Wax, melting. (Greek mythology. Of course. A fitting analogy.)

_It’s enough._

Out and back in, steady. Slow. A controlled descent. (He has experience with falling, after all.)

_It’s time._

Reached the sun, felt its warmth. Wings gone, dissolved, evaporated. Time, now, time to return to earth.

_Keep breathing. It’ll pass._

Ground, earth, reality rushing up to meet him.

_It’ll be over before you even know it._

Time, now.

Time to begin Stage Three.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus ends the Christmas arc, as well as the regular (and not-so-regular) updates for a little while, at least until the beginning of the semester craziness calms down. See yall soon!
> 
>  
> 
> Sherlock's musical terms:  
>  _estinto_ – as soft as possible  
>  _pianissimo_ – very soft


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He’d been able to taste Sherlock on his lips when he’d gone to bed the previous night, and that was certainly something new, something to fuel nighttime fantasies that he’d not indulged in many, many long months._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So when I said I'd post again 'after the beginning of the semester' what I apparently _really_ meant was 'after the semester has finished kicking my butt, wearing away at my physical health, and causing a resurgence in my chronic depression.' Sorry it's taken so long, my lovelies; it's been an interesting few months. ;)

John descends the stairs the morning of Boxing Day feeling giddy, anxious, dreams of lightly stubbled skin and pale violinist’s fingers following him down from his room, feeling like he’s turned a corner, called a bet and laid his cards on the table. He’d been able to taste Sherlock on his lips when he’d gone to bed the previous night, and  _that_  was certainly something new, something to fuel nighttime fantasies that he’d not indulged in many, many long months. John can’t deny that he’s looking forward to what this day might bring, what might come of the impulsive risk he’d taken under the mistletoe the previous evening, what could be waiting for him this morning when Sherlock emerges from his room.

So, naturally, Sherlock doesn’t come out of his room, not once the entire day.

If it weren’t for the nervous energy skittering up and down John’s spine, he might not have given it a second thought – Sherlock in recluse mode is hardly out of the ordinary, though it is a break from the routine of recent months – but as it is, John sits at the breakfast table, hands clasped around his second cup of tea and foot bouncing restlessly against the floor as his eyes dart, once again, to the sliver of Sherlock’s door he can make out from here.

The door refuses to open, no matter how hard John stares.

He gives it up as a bad job after another few minutes, shaking his head as he stands and reminding himself that Sherlock is healing, _has_ healed quite a bit, regained much of his physical strength and endurance and with it, apparently, his old moods and wiliness. John should have expected a return to old habits sooner or later. He sighs, casts one last glance toward the residential hall, and finally turns to make his way outside, to get on with the rest of the day.

There’s still no sign of Sherlock when John comes back inside for lunch, and not a single report of anyone having seen him throughout the morning. Knocking on the still shut door only garners a yelled, “Busy!” from the room’s occupant, followed by a more strident, “ _Go away!_ ” when John tries to talk to him.

When dinner rolls around, John doesn’t bother knocking anymore, just marches right up and shoulders the door open, hands laden with a bowl of hot stew and steaming mug of tea, face set to brook no arguments. 

Sherlock looks up with a squawk of protest, glaring up at John from where he’s sat on the floor in the middle of the room, caged in by teetering stacks of books on the flagstones around him. There are several tomes open in Sherlock’s lap, stacked one on top of another, and more discarded on the bedspread behind him. He’s still in his pyjamas, hair a riot, and John is thrown for a moment by the absence of a silky blue dressing gown as he takes in the sight before him, so very familiar, so very like many of the scenes John remembers from their old life at Baker Street.

“I know, I know, you’re busy,” John says, shaking himself out of the memory, cutting off whatever scathing remark is already brewing on his friend’s tongue as he crosses the small room. “But I don’t see any unstable chemicals about just now, which means that whatever it is you’re working on can wait a few minutes while you eat something.”

“Not hungry,” Sherlock snaps, and switches to scowling down at the topmost book in front of him, doing his level best to utterly ignore John and the food in his hands – just in time for his stomach to give a traitorously loud, rolling grumble. Sherlock’s shoulders hunch, his brows drawing only further down.

John snorts, smiling to himself and shaking his head as he dodges around a few towers of reading material to set the food on Sherlock’s bedside table. He feels his smile wilt a moment later, though, when he spies the cluster of wine bottles on the floor next to the table, some empty, others partially drunk. “In a lot of pain today?” he asks, turning back to look over at Sherlock, his tone nowhere near as casual as he’d have hoped.

“I need to concentrate,” Sherlock mutters, not looking up again, and John sighs. 

“You need to take a break,” he replies sternly, folding his arms.

Sherlock doesn’t reply, but John can see the muscle in his cheek jump and flex as he clenches his jaw. Neither of them speaks for a moment – John knows the only way to win this is to wait him out, meet stubborn with stubborn – and then Sherlock all but throws the books in his lap onto the floor in front of him and rises to his feet in one smooth, sinuous movement.

“So what are you working on?” John asks pleasantly, glowing and victorious, smiling as Sherlock approaches and getting only a glower in return.

“Nothing in particular,” Sherlock says, and reaches around John to pick up the tea from the bedside table.

“Hm, an entire day spent on ‘nothing in particular,’” John says, raising his eyebrows. “No wonder you need your concentration.” He grins in the face of Sherlock’s answering glare, then glances down at the books strewn across the floor and bed. The one nearest him, lying open atop the duvet, appears to be a text on ancient Greek art. “Starting in on the books you got for Christmas?”

Sherlock hums noncommittally, setting aside the tea after several gulps in favour of the soup bowl, which he lifts directly to his mouth instead of using the spoon that’s stuck into it like a civilised person. The action pulls John’s gaze to his lips, to the plush lower lip visible curled around the bowl’s edge as he drinks. He feels a low fluttering in his belly, warmth and anxiety, a resurgence of the edgy tension that had dogged him last night and all this morning, ever since that moment under the mistletoe.

“So.” John licks his lips, looking away at the floor and drawing in a fortifying breath, “Last night—”

“There. I’ve eaten,” Sherlock cuts him off, dropping the now brothless bowl of stew back to the bedside table. “You can go now.”

John stares at him a moment, blinking several times. “Right. Okay,” he says at last, slowly. He rubs a hand down his face as Sherlock turns to settle himself on the floor again. Apparently they aren’t going to talk about it, or not right now at least, not while Sherlock’s in... whatever mood this is.

Sherlock is already back to ignoring John, nose buried deep in one of his books. John sighs, shakes his head, and decides to gather up a few of the empty bottles from behind the bedside table for rinsing and reuse. As an afterthought, he picks up the bowl of stew in his free hand, now reduced to soggy chunks of veg and tinned meat without any liquid left to swim in, and sets it down beside Sherlock’s knee. “In case you get hungry again later,” he says pointedly, and Sherlock wrinkles his nose slightly but otherwise doesn’t respond, doesn’t even glance away from the book he’s glaring down at.

John sighs again, straightens, splits the bottles between both his hands, and lets himself back out into the hallway. So much for talking, so much for picking up where they’d left off – but then, he thinks, shaking his head and forcing a somewhat rueful smile as he crosses the great hall to the spring, that’s exactly what Sherlock’s doing, isn’t it? Picking up where he’d left off, maybe not from last night, but from months, a year ago, exactly as John remembers him being before.

It’s a good thing, really, this return to form, he tells himself as he washes out the bottles, setting them aside to dry. Even if it’s sure to mean more arguments in the future over when to eat and sleep, how much, for how long, how the incorrigible detective does or doesn’t take care of himself. And then when the giant idiot inevitably comes down with a cold or a headache or flu because of his habits, he’ll come crawling over to John to whinge and complain and demand all of his attention and supposed healing powers. Just like always.

John can’t help a grin at that. Nanny and personal caretaker hadn’t really been part of the deal when he’d first moved into 221B with Sherlock, but it had quickly become part of the rhythm of their life together, right along with crime scene assistant, medical examiner, and body guard.

 _And let’s not forget conductor of light_ , he thinks, smirking, and only glances a few more times at Sherlock’s closed door throughout the evening.

He doesn’t see Sherlock again until the next morning, when John is making his way back inside after taking the midnight-to-dawn guard shift. The others are beginning to filter out of their rooms, murmuring sleepy greetings to him and Kal and Liam as they pass on their way down to breakfast, and John barely manages to grunt anything in reply, his mind already ahead of him up the stairs and snuggled down into his warm, welcoming bed, willing his body to move faster but lacking the energy for anything more than a slow trudge.

He’s just reached the foot of the staircase when he hears a door open behind him, and he glances back, the fact barely registering in his hazy mind that there’s only one person left who he hasn’t seen yet this morning.

Sherlock looks right at him, holds John there in his gaze for a long moment, face expressionless, and then he turns his back and strides purposefully off in the other direction, into the great hall.

John stares after him, absolutely blank and far too tired to deal with Sherlock’s moods at the moment. He looks up at the ceiling, squeezes his eyes closed, shakes his head, and then gives in to the call of his bed.

Just as he’s drifting off, one grumpy, all too familiar thought floats through John’s mind: _God, he’s going to be a terror when he’s full-tilt bored._

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He could feasibly float here, then, forever and ever, in neutral space, neither forfeiting his claim on their previous time together nor forging ahead into uncharted realms, into the dead zone where only one thing awaits – death, or a sort of death, anyhow, an end to all they’ve known before, life irrevocably changed and spinning out to its ultimate finale (a black hole steadily sucking them down, and Sherlock a rocket barrelling straight towards its crushing centre)._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized I forgot to say last time: we're going to be doing weekly updates from here on out. 
> 
> As always, thanks are due to Madame_Mary for her indispensable Britpicking and to Glasscannon for her beta eyes of doom and general idea-bouncing prowess.

Sherlock doesn’t want to leave his room. Doesn’t want to leave his _bed_ , actually. It is now the third day since Christmas, since The End – though it could reasonably be called only the _first_ day, considering how the previous two went, research, reading, only coming up for air to get tea and food, his own growling stomach driving him out (stupid, useless habits, trained himself out of years, decades ago, all that time for naught after just a few months of bedrest). He’s had to act pre-emptively, sating his body’s needs before John comes to him with food again, can’t risk John sniffing around, asking questions, the wrong questions perhaps yet always stumbling toward the truth, feeling blindly about its edges. (Too soon, _too soon_.)

Three days in, three days since, but today really needn’t count any more the last two did – if Sherlock doesn’t get up then the day hasn’t truly begun, and a day that hasn’t begun can’t very well end either, and how does one count a period of time with neither an end nor a beginning? He could feasibly float here, then, forever and ever, in neutral space, neither forfeiting his claim on their previous time together nor forging ahead into uncharted realms, into the dead zone where only one thing awaits – death, or a sort of death, anyhow, an end to all they’ve known before, life irrevocably changed and spinning out to its ultimate finale (a black hole steadily sucking them down, and Sherlock a rocket barrelling straight towards its crushing centre).

But he could forestall all of that, simply by refusing to rise from his bed. Put it off indefinitely. He could. It would work. The reasoning seems sound enough.

People would begin to talk, of course, but then what else do they ever do, and eventually John would come looking and his initial examinations would reveal nothing physically wrong with Sherlock at all. John would accuse Sherlock of unnecessary obstinacy and of being in a _mood_ , but if he kept it up long enough then John might become convinced that something were actually wrong even if it’s not something that can be detected by a doctor’s trained eyes and ears, and then he would hover about by Sherlock’s bedside and bring him tea and food that Sherlock would barely be able to choke down when he even bothered to attempt it, and obviously he’d only eat occasionally as weight loss would make his condition only more believable and John would be so worried and caring and he would never leave Sherlock alone ever again and then none of this would have to—

Sherlock can envisage with perfect clarity John’s Worried Face, the stages his expression progresses through when he’s resolutely Not Worried and is trying to strongarm Sherlock into giving up his charade of being unwell; and then when he’s allowing himself to be Mildly Concerned but is still retaining his professional detachment; and then, finally, when he’s Well And Truly Afraid for Sherlock’s wellbeing and can no longer hide it (at that level of Worry, Sherlock has seen John nearly attack EMTs who tried to block his path to Sherlock when he’d sustained an injury during a case, professional courtesy and social proprieties be damned (such a glorious sight, John’s entire being aglow with wrathful golden flames, a tiny, vengeful god unto himself, the lion in sheep’s clothing for once revealing his true nature)).

It’s not good for John, though (Not Good, by more than a bit). Prolonged worrying quickly drives John to distraction, to never leaving the flat, not going for walks or pints with mates or enjoying what’s on the telly. He’s quickly unable to concentrate on his blog or the Times crossword or his medical journals or whatever novel he’s inching his way through, unable to think of much of anything other than Sherlock and the incessant Worry. And for the first day or two, this is wonderful, positively lovely, even when Sherlock is in no mood for human interaction of any kind, even with John – even then, at his worst, some part of him will still greedily hoard every second of John’s attention, every glance and brush of his hand across Sherlock’s forehead, checking for fever, for drugs, for healthy pupil reaction.

But— but then John’s nightmares start getting worse (could hear John from anywhere in the flat before, curled on the sofa as John’s voice drifts down the stairs into the sitting room or sprawled on his own unwashed sheets while John’s cries carry right through the mere foot of ceiling and insulation and floor that separate their bedrooms). They increase in frequency the longer Sherlock’s own depression lasts (wonders where John’s (new) bedroom falls in relation to Sherlock’s here in the castle; too many variables, too many people, stone too solid and corridors too echoing to determine John’s movements on the first floor without visual confirmation), which means that John sleeps less, sitting up later and rising earlier to try to avoid the nightly disturbances that come as soon as his eyes close. It leaves him exhausted, leaves him looking grey and sad and defeated, nothing like the ferocious, utterly underestimated, victorious war hero who normally walks at Sherlock’s side.

John’s inability to sleep then begins affecting his ability to work, to be alert and effective when he is called upon for locum shifts (which John goes looking for more rigorously whenever dry spells between interesting cases last more than a day or two). His inattentiveness while on the clock then leads to him being called upon less frequently, his name falling further and further down the list of doctors the surgery can rely upon when one of their regulars can’t make it in, which leads to John worrying more about bills and his pension and his half of the rent (hates hearing that Sherlock can more than cover it on his own, that Mrs Hudson is always willing to let it slide for a few weeks, that Mycroft would never allow things to reach the point of John having to move out (not that Sherlock enjoys the idea of turning to his brother of all people for help, not that he is at all inclined to even voice such obvious points when his mind is busy tearing itself apart with boredom and reminders of just how easy it would be to acquire a solution to all his problems, so easy to buy or even to cook up his own, to sink deeper into the encroaching oblivion and never have to resurface again)).

Out of some misguided attempt at frugality (or possibly a sort of psychosomatic sympathy loss of appetite from watching Sherlock abstain for so long (or perhaps because all the nightmares have put John back in mind of his first months back in London after being shot, back when he wasn’t even aware that he was wasting away (before meeting Sherlock and steadily gaining about a stone a week ( _Is that what a girlfriend does? Feed you up?_ (Stop that))))), John begins eating less and less. He’ll make two cups of tea in the morning, set one next to wherever Sherlock is currently collapsed, and then only drink half of his own before he inevitably forgets about it and lets it go cold. Food begins to spoil in the fridge faster than they can eat it, even without experimental interference from Sherlock. And for every kilo Sherlock drops, John at first loses a quarter of one, and then a third, and then a half, catching up and gaining (losing) ground quickly, his already small frame growing increasingly thin and hunched.

With a grimace of annoyance, Sherlock kicks the covers off and hauls himself upright, clambers out of bed. He can’t feign illness, can’t give in to depression and torpor, because that inevitably ends in John starving to death, and then where will they be?

At the exact opposite of his intended goal, that’s where, everything he’s worked for since returning turning to ash around them. No, he knows what he has to do – but that in no way means that he has to be particularly happy about it.

He bangs out of his room, stomps out to the great hall, slumps into a chair at the dining table – across from and one seat to the right (his right, her left) of Professor Morstan, several seats away from the smattering of other people already at breakfast. She glances at him over her tea and book ( _Till We Have Faces_ , C. S. Lewis), eyes wide, brows raised (startled, as always, by his presence), forces a smile a moment later (attempting friendliness, overcoming fear through sheer force of will (has apparently decided not to believe the stories Anderson and his ilk have been telling about him)).

Sherlock doesn’t return the smile, lets his eyes slide away after a moment, pillowing his chin on his folded arms and looking absolutely pathetic.

“Good morning, Sherlock,” Mary says, deliberately, after a beat of silence. He doesn’t respond, sees her lips purse in his peripheral vision. ( _3, 2, 1—_ ) “Would you like some tea?” she offers tentatively, already setting her own mug aside.

Sherlock blinks lethargically. “Oh, I suppose,” he says, heaving a sigh, then adds as an afterthought, “if it’s not too much trouble.”

Mary’s smile softens slightly as she rises, returns a minute later with a steaming mug. “I don’t know how you take it,” she apologises, passing him the cup.

He shrugs it off, stretches an arm down the table to snag the sugar bowl and begins spooning the white granules in.

(Behind him, approaching down the hall from the stairs: familiar tread, combat boots, jeans, steps steady and even, no limp in evidence.)

“It’s nice to see you out of your room,” she says, smiling kindly again. “It seems like we’ve barely seen you since Christmas.”

“You’ve read that book several times before,” Sherlock comments, gesturing at the worn edges of her paperback with the sugar spoon. “At least... five, no, six times.”

Mary blinks at him, expression freezing in place (shock? Clearly. Offense? Too early to say). “How... How can you tell that?” (Definitely shocked, but not offended; intrigued but timid, edge of fear (tiny herbivore sensing another presence, sensing danger, attempting to identify it.))

“Wear patterns on the cover and pages, differing depths and crispness to the folds, creases in the spine – could probably pinpoint your favourite scene from that alone – not to mention the fading of the paper and text...” Sherlock lets his voice trail off, dropping his chin back onto his folded arms once more, the image of despondency.

(John’s footsteps growing closer – sudden trepidation, churn of motion sickness low in his gut (stall— retreat— _abort_ —))

( _No!_ Have to push through.)

“Are you all right?” Mary inquires, cocking her head to peer down at him, forehead creased above her glasses (less forced than a moment ago, sincere).

Sherlock snorts, rolls his eyes, annoyance and unease unfeigned. (John: three yards away and closing, two yards, one—)

Mary watches Sherlock for a second more before looking up to smile and say, “Good morning, doctor,” to John.

“Morning, doctor,” John replies in kind (inflection indicates he’s grinning cheekily (Professor Morstan goes pink, drops her eyes back to her book (inside joke, both different sorts of doctors, yes how hilarious, ugh))).

John’s hand lands between Sherlock’s shoulder blades (shock of warmth, electricity, tensing up ( _stop it_ )). “Good morning,” John says, quieter now, almost a question, pointedly expecting an answer.

Sherlock grunts, rounding his shoulders, plastering himself into the table’s surface. John’s hand rubs a single, quick circle before disappearing again. (Track John’s movements out of the corner of his eye, don’t move, don’t give the game away—) Mary lifts her book again, but not without first casting another (determined) smile toward Sherlock.

John returns a minute later with a cup of tea for himself and two plates of food, one of which he slides up next to Sherlock’s prone form on the tabletop (not enough hands for the number of dishes – balanced one of the plates on his forearm while he walked, steady surgeon’s hands, even soldier’s gait, wonderful, reliable John), before taking the open seat next to Sherlock (on Sherlock’s left, as always (conscious of his own dominant left hand and of the possibility of elbowing Sherlock’s injured right side), which conveniently puts John directly across from Professor Morstan).

“Nice to finally see you up and about,” John comments (in his Annoyed But Smiling tone, mildly passive-aggressive technique frequently employed in the past, usually involving something Sherlock has done that is considered socially unacceptable for some obscure reason and over which John feels a level of triumph upon successfully getting Sherlock to stop doing it).

Sherlock grunts again, eyeing the back cover of Mary Morstan’s novel (“ _I saw well why the gods do not speak to us openly, nor let us answer..._ ”)

John follows Sherlock’s gaze, smiling across at Mary as he asks, “Good book?”

Professor Morstan blushes again, glances up with an answering smile. “An old favourite,” she nods, and her eyes flick toward Sherlock, smile still in place (still genuine, interesting). “Really anything by C.S. Lewis is, though. I grew up on Narnia,” she says, and John laughs (polite, interested, charming, treading the blurred line between sincerity and affectation as only John can).

“I remember my mum trying to read _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_ to me and Harry when we were kids,” John chuckles. ( _Harry and me,_ Sherlock thinks, wrinkling his nose.) “It never really took.”

“I’ve the whole set if you’d ever like to borrow it, give it another go,” Mary offers, before growing shy again (cheeks pinkening further, gaze dropping, smile deepening ( _Well that was mind-numbingly easy,_ Sherlock sniffs)). “I wasn’t able to bring mine when Winston and I left Oxford, but Kal gave me it for Christmas.”

John nods, smiling around a mouthful of beans and toast (chews, swallows, swipes the pad of his thumb across his mouth before speaking). “I might take you up on that sometime.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, closes them, could very well go back to bed now – and then John deliberately jabs him in the side with an elbow.

“Eat your food,” John commands when Sherlock slits an eye open to glare up at him. John’s expression softens a moment later, stern mouth turning warm, pleased, eyes smiling. “You’re going to need all your energy today.”

“Oh?” He doesn’t move, certainly doesn’t reach for the fork sticking out of the food next to him.

“Yep.” John finishes another bite, licks at his lips. Outright grinning now. “We’re going on a raid.”

Sherlock stills, straightens slowly, pushing away from the table as he turns a frown on John, and John rushes to continue.

“I know it’s not exactly a locked room murder,” he says – cajoling, placating, but _utterly_ pleased with himself, “but getting out of here for a bit has got to be better than moping about because you’re too bored to think straight.”

“I am perfectly capable of _thinking straight_ ,” Sherlock snaps, and stands abruptly, chair creaking loudly against the stone floor as he shoves up and out of his seat. “But perhaps Professor Morstan would prefer to accompany you,” he spits, lets the entirely unsubtle hint hang in the air as he sweeps away to stalk back to his room. (An unlikely assertion: she rarely leaves the bounds of the castle’s walls, does her turn at guard duty but is uneasy handling a firearm, engaging in combat, happy to let those who actually enjoy raids to take her spot – but such a suggestion can only help, could well open other possibilities in future.)

He can hear them sitting in silence for a long moment while he crosses the room, before, behind him, Mary’s voice, just on the lowest edge of audible, murmurs, “He seems... out of sorts...”

“Yeah...” John breathes, and Sherlock can tell he’s turned in his seat, his gaze following Sherlock’s movements until he escapes into the residential hall, into his bedroom, back to the asylum of a closed door between them.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The fresh air and physical exertion certainly would have been good for Sherlock too, had always seemed to help him calm down to get out into London, into his city, to work through his nervous energy, like an overactive puppy that needed to go to the park once a day in order to keep from chewing on the furniture and all of John’s shoes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote from ASiP is courtesy of [arianedevere’s transcript](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43047.html). Other quotes are from TDBTD ch39 :>

John takes out the corpses shuffling toward the car with quick, efficient shots, 1, 2, 3, _bam, bam, bam_ , immediately looks around for more.

He is _miffed_.

Kal glances back at him, slowly lowers his rifle, leans back in through his window. John just clenches his teeth, glares out at the passing buildings, and the car trundles on through the town without comment from either Kal in the front passenger seat or Caleb behind the wheel.

Miffed, annoyed, frustrated, more than a little offended, even – as only Sherlock Holmes can make him.

John had been trying to _help_ when he suggested the raid to Sherlock. He could see the boredom setting in, of course he could, had witnessed it too many times not to. Sherlock is slipping, his composure fracturing, cracks appearing rounds his edges, nothing to distract him now that the excitement of Christmas is over with. He needs something to occupy his mind, anything – and while, as John had readily admitted, it isn’t anywhere near the high end of the old Interesting Case Scale, it would certainly be better than _nothing_. Besides, no one ever knew what could happen when they got out here. The undead might be slow, but they’re also unpredictable, popping up in large, dense herds or out of cupboards and locked rooms where they’d tried to hide away before the plague took them. Anything could happen out here, any given raid _might_ turn out relatively boring, or it could always take a sudden, dangerous turn – not unlike their most exhilarating cases back home.

He drops another zombie that comes shambling out of the shattered door of the next building, glances inside as they roll past, checking for movement first, usable merchandise second – a clothing boutique anyway, non-essential goods, might return here later if need be, but not now. They’d brought in enough luxury items during the preparations for Christmas; it’s time to focus on the community’s basic needs once more and find the nearest supermarket.

The fresh air and physical exertion certainly would have been good for Sherlock too, John thinks, good to get out from the same four walls that have been caging him in for weeks now. It was always good before, between cases back at Baker Street, had always seemed to help him calm down to get out into London, into his city, to work through his nervous energy, like an overactive puppy that needed to go to the park once a day in order to keep from chewing on the furniture and all of John’s shoes.

John can’t help snorting at that thought. He had, in fact, lost several shoes to Sherlock’s various experiments back in the day. Overactive puppy, indeed.

It would have helped to get him out here, John is absolutely sure of that. Killing zombies is the best thing they have without any crimes to solve. And yet Sherlock had reacted as if it was the most idiotic thing John had ever said to him, as if it was _insulting_ for John to try and distract his friend from the crushing boredom that they both know is the bane of Sherlock’s existence. It’s an adrenaline rush just being out here, half stakeout, half chase, something they both can enjoy, something they can do _together_. Something that, even if it _doesn’t_ turn into a thrill, might finally give them a chance to _talk_ about things.

John shakes his head, cuffs a wrist across his forehead as Caleb pulls the car to a stop in front of a decrepit-looking Sainsbury’s. It doesn’t seem as though they’re _ever_ going to pick up the thread of what they’d begun under the mistletoe Christmas night. All John’s wanted since that moment is to explore what could come out of that, to see wherever it might lead, to at least talk through the possibilities before them. But all Sherlock has done since then is avoid John.

He frowns, feeling something sour low in his belly as he climbs out of the car and onto the pavement.

Sherlock _has_ been avoiding him, hasn’t he? It wasn’t just this morning, wasn’t just this one time when Sherlock shrugged him off – _literally_ – and stormed out. John hadn’t realised it until just now, somehow hadn’t recognised the patter, but suddenly it seems clear: staying shut up in his room, reading and unhappy about being disturbed, eating little, taciturn and churlish whenever John tries to engage with him.

But none of that’s terribly out of the ordinary, John reminds himself as Caleb and Kal disappear inside the supermarket, leaving him to prop the doors open and keep watch. In the larger picture of all the years they’ve known each other, that behaviour is actually fairly normal.

Though… it is a rather abrupt change from the last few months, especially the weeks leading up to Christmas. John had noticed the seclusion and reduced appetite first, of course, the doctor in him always keeping an eye out for unhealthy habits, in all of the people who live with them in the castle but especially in his ever-capricious best friend. Sherlock has been eating fairly well ever since his injury, increased alcohol use notwithstanding, and sleeping regularly, being an all-around surprisingly good patient, especially relative to his behaviour in years past.

But even beyond that, during the lead up to the holiday, Sherlock has been what might actually be called _friendly_. And not just with John – Emily, Kal, Mary, even Harry seems to have finally passed his test for Tolerable Human Beings – but he had seemed especially welcoming, eager even, for John’s company. John hadn’t imagined that, the way Sherlock had seemed to jump at any chance to go on a raid if John was going, had happily accepted John’s help with the various little projects he was developing about the castle, even if John’s ‘help’ usually amounted to merely holding something in place or turning a page in an engineering book or lifting an object too heavy for the still-healing detective. Sherlock had seemed to want John there for nothing more than companionship, whether it took the form of conversation or amiable silence. It had been… nice. Pleasant. To say the least. He’d seemed happy.

John had certainly been happy.

And then there was Christmas day, and the exchanging of their gifts, the framed photo that was now sitting atop John’s chest of drawers back in his bedroom – he’d thought about putting it on his bedside table, but that still felt a bit too personal, a bit _presumptuous_ at this point – and that beautiful violin composition, something Sherlock had apparently been planning for a long time, but hadn’t known he’d ever get the chance to perform it, hadn’t known he’d have a musical instrument at his disposal again.

John can’t help a small, satisfied smirk at that as he paces in front of the shop’s entrance. The look of surprise on Sherlock’s face when he’d opened the box to reveal his new violin had been a gift all on its own. It wasn’t often John could keep anything a secret from his genius, and each time he managed it was a moment to treasure.

They’d had such a glorious holiday, even with John on guard duty for a bit and Sherlock disappearing for several hours to practice with his violin. There’s a glow around all of the events of that day in John’s mind, perfect and amazing and everything he could possibly have wanted for Christmas, culminating at last with that quiet moment under the mistletoe, murmured thanks, and the feel of Sherlock’s warm skin under John’s lips…

An image suddenly blossoms in his mind, a frozen, mental snapshot of the shocked, wide-eyed, utterly flabbergasted look Sherlock had given him when John had pulled away. He’d looked at John as if such a gesture, such a show of affection, was entirely foreign to him, as if he’d no earthly idea how to respond, whether even to be happy or... or _affronted_.

John stops pacing, stares out at the darkened buildings across from him as another memory reasserts itself.

_“I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any—”_

The words are still clear as day after all this time, perfectly preserved from that strange, crazy, _amazing_ first night together—

 _No, **not** together, that was the whole point!_ John shakes his head, spins on his heel to continue his rounds, eyes sweeping the street.

Things _have_ been good, though, he’s sure of that. Sherlock’s been happy, they both have been, ever since they finally worked things out that day on the rooftop.

 _This bloody mess started on a rooftop and it ended on one too,_ he thinks ruefully, rubs at his eyes with one hand before returning it to his Browning. It was so _stupid_ , too, the whole thing, from John’s assumptions – based on nothing more than terrible, cloying insecurities, formless suspicions and jealousies – to its resolution, the argument about the smoke diffuser, and Anderson opening his big mouth.

John hadn’t thought much of it at the time, of course, it was _Anderson_ , what did he know about anything, least of all John and Sherlock’s relationship. But, out of context, all on its own, it was a nice thought, that Sherlock might have been doing any of the things he did for John. And John had let himself believe he could see a pattern emerging...

_“Anderson is a moron of the highest degree who likes to ascribe motivations based not on verifiable evidence but on his own pedestrian desires to witness scandal and intrigue.”_

Some small part of John’s mind takes a moment to wish he had such perfect recall of other things, not just his mad flatmate’s words.

_“I assure you, you needn’t read any further into the incident.”_

Anderson had opened his big, stupid mouth, and Sherlock had refuted it. Had denied it. All of it.

“Jesus,” John breathes, scrubs at his eyes again.

Sherlock was happy. _Had been_ happy. Since they’d stopped fighting about his disappearance, since they were able to rekindle their friendship, to reclaim the easy camaraderie they’d known before, all the way up through Christmas, up until the very end of the night.

Up until John kissed him.

“Fuck,” he swears, shaking his head.

And John has been blundering on for the last few days, completely oblivious, sticking his nose in when Sherlock clearly wanted to be left alone. God, the way he’d _cringed_ away when John had put his hand on Sherlock’s back this morning at breakfast... His stomach gives a dangerous clench, the beginning tendrils of nausea spiralling outward through him.

“All right, doc?” Caleb’s voice chirps from behind him, back with his first haul of supplies already.

“Yeah. Fine. Sorry.” John waves him off, tries to push that train of thought from his mind as he moves to open the boot for his encumbered companions. Kal and Caleb both have their hands full, weapons slung across their backs, stooping to drop their bags of tinned and dried foodstuffs into the car as John steps aside, and so John is the only one to see the movement across the street from them.

“Heads up!” he barks, weapon snapping up in his hands, sees the other two men instantly snap to attention and do the same on either side of him.

“Don’t—Don’t shoot!” The figure that’s just emerged from the petrol station across the way freezes, hands in the air in front of him, staring at them in terror. He looks to be in his early thirties by John’s guess, frazzled and dirty and exhausted in clothes that look like they’ve been worn for a week or more. He doesn’t seem to have any weapons or cargo or anything besides a lumpy, cloth bundle slung across his chest.

“Who are you?” John demands. His finger is on the trigger, steady, waiting for a single sign of danger. “Where’s your group?”

“I— I— We don’t have a group,” the man stutters, quaking in fear.

“We?” Caleb challenges, and cocks his shotgun unnecessarily.

The man’s eyes only widen further, and before he can say another word, the cloth bundle starts to squirm and the piercing, unmistakable cry of a newborn baby cuts through the air.

“Well, shit,” Kal mutters.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John stands as a beacon of authority, glowing golden and warm and stalwart amongst the rabble clustered about him, and Sherlock feels a satisfied, even proud smile pulling at his mouth._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's been a slight hiccup with the Britpicking this chapter, so please excuse any mistakes (and/or leave them in a comment so I can fix them ;) )
> 
> Thanks to Glasscannon for all her support and especially for laughing at me when I was freaking out over a word choice that I didn't remember making and could not for the life of me figure out the reasoning behind. Fun times ;D

The raiding party has been gone barely four hours – four hours of frustration, boredom, stagnation, of _none of this works without John here_ – when the lone car they’d taken is spotted trundling up the pitted and broken roadway leading to the castle.

Sherlock fights off the impulse to dash out across the courtyard and up onto the protective ramparts, to catch the earliest possible glimpse of the vehicle and observe it as it draws nigh. He follows the crowd partway outside but stops at the top step in front of the castle’s wide front doorway, allows the others to stream out around him into the garden. He watches passively as the gate is unbarred and levered open for the car to roll inside, refuses to join them all in clustering about the vehicle, in their eager anticipation of an influx of valuable goods and of friends safely returned.

His own enthusiasm is pointless here, after all (unvalued, unappreciated, unwanted...)

Had he followed his initial urge, though, Sherlock would have seen earlier what he catches brief snatches of now, in between the movements of the group encircling the car: riding low on its wheels, taken on additional weight, though more than seems reasonable given the short duration of the raid and time required for the roundtrip to and from the target town, leaving only a small stretch between in which to clear a building and gather supplies. Additionally, the weight appears centred upon the car’s axles, in the main body, not in the boot – not entirely unheard of, though seating space is generally reserved for humans and only given over to their haul when absolutely necessary. A relatively empty boot plus added weight in the central compartment can only mean—

The people in the courtyard step aside, affording Sherlock an unobstructed view to confirm his conclusion: there’s a fourth person (male, mid-thirties, brown hair once close-cropped but now grown out, medium build edging toward muscular, taller than John, shorter than Kal) climbing out of the car.

Not just a fourth adult, but a child as well, the tiny body’s shape visible swaddled within the cloth sling on the man’s front (soft, thick material, entirely enclosing the infant’s form, offering both warmth and darkness as well as proximity to the adult’s cardiovascular rhythms, recreating womb-like circumstances, ideal for keeping a child calm and quiet whilst freeing the adult’s limbs for mobility and dexterity).

(Odd: the man is unarmed despite the arrangement of the infant sling specifically allowing his hands to remain unencumbered; John or one of the others might have taken his weapon upon his capture, but there is no sign of another gun beyond their own original three nor any sheath for a blade. Could have been taken from him by a less friendly group, though there are no signs of violence against his person, not even bruised knuckles – possible the presence of the child won him some amount of mercy (wonder (very) briefly: might that have changed Sherlock’s own time on the road? Pointless to even consider, waste of time, no patience for children, no experience, where would he even find an infant, positive outcome highly unlikely.))

The crowd has stilled, pulling back at the newcomer’s appearance (surprise, shock, defensiveness: _intruder_ ). John speaks up then, drawing their attention, his voice calm, firm, his tone, if not his words, carrying easily across the courtyard. The familiar tenor washes over Sherlock like a wave, sending a slight tremor to chase itself down his spine. John stands as a beacon of authority, glowing golden and warm and stalwart amongst the rabble clustered about him, and Sherlock feels a satisfied, even proud smile pulling at his mouth. As he watches, John rests his hand lightly on the Browning in its holster at his hip (unconscious gesture: military leadership reasserting itself over the other roles he occupies (doctor, healer, defender, friend (partner, boyfriend, lover))).

(Quick turn of nausea, flash of chill, _entirely psychosomatic (stop it!_ ))

The new arrival is fiddling with the strap of the infant carrier as he watches the gathering from the far side of the car, the slight movement catching Sherlock’s eye, distracting, pulling his gaze away from John. He tugs on the strap several times, shifting it until he finds a more comfortable placement on his shoulder (back and arms sore, not yet acclimated to wearing the carrier, unaccustomed to bearing the weight of another body, small though it may be: the baby is no more than a few weeks old). His hands then drop away (slide into his pockets, given the particular wrinkling of his jacket, visible even from here over the roof of the car) and he widens his stance, knees straight and hips thrust forward, leaving the carrier to bulge out away from his abdomen like some alien growth.

There’s an itch inside Sherlock’s skull, right behind his eyes, tiny, ever so slightly out of place...

They’ll have to be quarantined, of course. John and the others have been adamant on that point with all of the new arrivals of late (and some amongst the castle’s inhabitants can’t seem to help themselves in commenting on the fact that Sherlock had himself bypassed the protocol (annoying, bitter, hateful (different, disparate, weird, unnatural))). The man will be quarantined in the usual manner, anyhow; the child will have to be cared for separately, too young to be left on its own (high likelihood that John will assume this duty himself, moderate-to-high likelihood that no one in the crowd will point out the obvious idiocy of that plan).

A shift of the light, clouds parting in the sky, and Sherlock’s eyes are drawn back to the group’s focal point, back to John. The doctor is no longer the only illuminated figure, though, the halo broadening to glint on coppery tresses: Mary, standing just to John’s left, one of the first out the door, first to reach the returned raiding party, standing so close now, a splash of flame orange against the dark grey of the wall, against John’s wheat gold, complementary colours, sun and fire, warmth and security, hearth and home, perfect, _together_ —

Someone (sudden movement, disruption, unexpected life preserver, follow John’s gaze as he turns, find the speaker, inconsequential target but welcome distraction: Abigail) asks a question and John’s face momentarily creases with a frown, brows pinching together (irritated, tired (stance: even; hands: steady)). His eyes flick up and find Sherlock standing away on the porch (solitary, alone, apart, outside, alien, foreign, stranger, strange, abnormal, freakish, freak), somehow holds the eye contact even as other voices continue to jabber around him.

John’s brows rise then (silently questioning, too perceptive, _too soon_ ), and Sherlock yanks himself away, spins on his heel, flees back inside, flees from the image before him, gold and red turned to sickly greens and blues in negative against his closed eyelids, burned into his retinas, victorious and nauseating all at once, insurmountable, inescapable, inevitable.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s standard procedure by now – no one, **no one** , gets to return to the castle with them without first being briefed on and agreeing to their rules. Chiefest among them is the requirement to remain in solitary quarantine for the first seventy-two hours after admittance, so as to ensure that none of the new arrivals are infected with the undead disease. Since he and Harry had established their home here and begun to take in other survivors, the practice had proven itself essential, and they’ve so far managed to keep the sickness from infiltrating their stronghold._

John watches Sherlock disappear back into the building, feeling a twinge beneath his ribs, the momentary hope at seeing his friend now dashed. Cursing mentally, he turns his attention back to the people in front of him and the problem at hand. He’ll track Sherlock down later, try and get the detective to sit still long enough to work out this new tension that’s sprung up between them since Christmas day.

 _Later,_ he tells himself firmly. They’ll talk later, after all of this is sorted.

“So you didn’t actually bring back any supplies?” Lorena scowls at them, arms folded over her chest.

“Not as much as we’d intended, no,” John bites back on a sigh.

“Just another two mouths to feed instead,” Tom mutters from behind her.

“What is wrong with you?” Emily demands, glaring across the small open space at the couple. “It’s _Christmas!_ We’ve certainly got room for a man and a baby!”

“Right, because there aren’t enough of us on the brink of starvation already,” Anderson chimes in, his weasel face twisted in a vicious sneer.

“ _Enough_ ,” John barks, and they fall silent. He’s aware of the new fellow – Robert – behind him, sandwiched between the wall and the far side of the car, shifting his weight uneasily as he takes in the contentious group in whose hands his fate – and that of his child – now lies. “We cut the raid short because the baby was crying and would have started to attract attention,” John says. “It was a tactical decision that I certainly _hope_ any of you would have the sense to make in a similar situation.” Glancing around, he takes in the scattered nods of assent. “We can go out again in a few days, but no supplies are worth risking extra undead activity, _especially_ ,” he can’t help another frown at Anderson now, “since we’re not anywhere near starvation, as everyone bloody well knows.”

The ex-forensics tech scowls and folds his arms but doesn’t comment again, though John does hear a few other quiet grumbles of complaint throughout the group, too low to be identified with everyone gathered together like this. They’re all uneasy, worried for the future, and not entirely without cause. It’s up to John to assuage their fears and head off any panic.

He draws in a long breath, hands on his hips, and has to resist the urge to rub at his eyes as he pushes on with the formalities, “We’ve already discussed the issue of quarantine, and he’s agreed, of course.”

It’s standard procedure by now – despite what John had said about leaving the town in a hurry to avoid the zombies who might come looking for the source of the baby’s cries, no one, _no one_ _,_ gets to return to the castle with them without first being briefed on and agreeing to their rules. Chiefest among them is the requirement to remain in solitary quarantine for the first seventy-two hours after admittance, so as to ensure that none of the new arrivals are infected with the undead disease. Since he and Harry had established their home here and begun to take in other survivors, the practice had proven itself essential, and they’ve so far managed to keep the sickness from infiltrating their stronghold.

A few newcomers, here and there, had not survived, picking up the virus in too-close brushes with the undead out on the road and then beginning to show symptoms during their seclusion as the organism incubated inside them. Without fail, any who showed even the slightest sign later succumbed to the illness, no matter what John did, no matter how he tried to help them. There was simply no stopping it, no recovering, no coming back. All he could do, in the end, was try to make them comfortable, keep them away from everyone else, and promise them a quick, clean death once their vital signs failed and the change from human to flesh eating monster began.

He doesn't remember all of their names, but their faces weigh heavy in the back of John’s mind, entombed with so many war victims and soldiers bleeding out on his operating table. One young woman stands out in his memory – Rachel, and while she hadn’t worn pink, the association had always been there, somewhere in John’s subconscious, a little lost child with a grieving mum far away. She was twin sister and friend, respectively, to Rebecca and Liam, their two – three, originally – most recent arrivals. The group of them had been close since primary school, he’d gathered. Rachel had been joking and murmuring reassurances the entire time once it became clear that she was ill, comforting her perfectly healthy sister sitting across from her even as her own body was ravaged by the fever.

 _“Doctor Watson won’t let me turn into one of those things, will you, doctor?”_ She’d smiled up at him, smiled through the bars, through the sweat on her forehead and the illness shimmering in her eyes as John had nodded his acquiescence. _“See, Beccs? Everything’s fine. You’re safe now, and everything’s going to be just fine…”_

He’d kept his promise. A clean death. Rebecca’s sister hadn’t become a zombie.

And neither had Rebecca or Liam: that’s the point of it, the reason for going through this exercise every time. Cold though it may seem, the enforced separation is the only thing that’s saved them from an outbreak within the castle walls, much less waking in the night to find one of their own suddenly bloodthirsty and deranged. But for the first three of their group – Harry, Caleb, and John himself – everyone else now living with them endured the three days of watchful isolation before being accepted into the group.

 _Everyone but Sherlock,_ John reminds himself, rueful. 

The talk might have been a bit hurried today, their terms delivered in the backseat of the car rather than out in the open air, where all parties would have room to think, room to go their separate ways if the offer was peaceably declined, or to otherwise manoeuvre if negotiations took a turn for the not so peaceful. It hadn’t seemed to matter, though – Robert had jumped at the invitation, eagerly agreed to their rules before they’d even got all the way through listing them. The man’s just desperate to get in out of the cold, and who could blame him?

“What about the baby?” Lorena asks then, shrewd as always, drawing John back out of his thoughts, watching him with icy eyes narrowed almost to slits. “You can’t leave a baby on its own in quarantine!”

“No, obviously not,” John agrees. The other children had both been old enough when they’d arrived that they could safely be on their own for a few days – still within sight of their parents, of course, able to talk to them, to reassure them that everything was all right, that everything was _going to be_ all right, while they waited out the window for the fever to show itself. John had made a point of acquiring some colouring books and plush animals for Sasha when she and her family had arrived, in addition to the normal fare of blank notebooks and paperback novels that are always kept in stock in the quarantine house. 

Emily and Kal had seemed to understand that the occasional bored tantrum while they were cooped up there was well worth ensuring that none of them were infected – and, more to the point, that even if one among them were to become ill, they wouldn’t then be free to pass the sickness on to, much less attack, the other members of their family.

A baby, though, especially one as young as Robert’s son – just a few weeks old, according to the man himself – needs near-constant care and supervision. They can’t leave the father and child together, either: it defeats the purpose of quarantine, risks the adult turning and harming the infant, or one of them passing the illness to the other. Either way, they’d lose both of them. No, they have to be separated – it’s about triage, cutting their losses, hoping neither of them are infected but ultimately accepting the possibility that one or both could be, preserving the lives that can be saved without wasting resources on those who are already doomed.

All of that means, though, that someone from within the castle, someone already proven to be healthy, uninfected, will have to care for the baby in the meantime, and will have to remain in quarantine for the appropriate amount of time to make sure they haven't contracted the pathogen themselves either. It won’t be an easy task, in large part because of the stress and fear that inherently go along with willingly exposing yourself to an unproven stranger’s germs. Not something most people would be falling over themselves to volunteer for.

That only leaves one option. “I’ll look after the baby,” John states, addressing the group at large once more.

There’s a moment of silence – simply absorbing the information, John wants to say, but a voice in the back of his mind that sounds suspiciously like a certain genius friend of his counters with, _Stunned. This is what’s known as **stunned** silence, John._

And then, from the midst of the crowd, his sister’s voice pipes up, “Like hell you will!”

John blinks, frowning as Harry pushes her way to the front of the group, squaring off against John, mirroring his pose with feet spread and arms akimbo. “I’m the best qualified to act if anything goes wrong,” John points out – he may not be a paediatrician, but he did his basic neonatal training just like any other medical student, knows how to handle CPR and other emergency techniques in regards to infants, knows the basics of a young baby’s nutritional needs. He’s the most sensible choice, really.

“You’re also the best qualified to take care of anything that happens out _here_ ,” Harry says. “Or are we all just forbidden from getting hurt or sick while our only doctor is locked away for three days straight?” She raises her eyebrows, face mocking, sarcasm making John’s teeth grind together.

“And that’s the best case scenario, of course,” Winston pipes up, his old voice dry and deep, “being without our physician for a mere three days. Suppose the child _is_ ill, and only shows it on the last day of quarantine?” That gets a few thoughtful murmurs of agreement from the gathering, and John feels his frown deepen. “You would then yourself be required to remain quarantined for another three days at minimum, to ensure the contagion hadn’t been passed to you,” the professor goes on, “depriving the rest of us of your medical care for a week at least, and at most…” He falters, purses his lips, adjusts the angle of the glasses perched on his nose. John knows what he’s going to say, of course: “Well, at most, _permanently_ ,” Winston finishes, and John grimaces, looking away.

It is possible, of course: the illness is passed through bodily fluids, blood, saliva, vomit. Not airborne, thank god, not unless an infected person were to sneeze right in your face. A baby’s spitup, though, full of saliva and stomach acids, could easily carry the zombie virus if infected.

“That’s incredibly unlikely, though,” John says, shaking his head even as he tacitly accepts the possibility. “A baby this young,” he starts to explain – frankly, a baby this young should be receiving immuno-support from his mother, but without his mum in sight and no one else to breastfeed him, he’ll be lacking even that basic defence, paltry though it would be against this particular killer – “would be showing signs already if he were infected. He should be feverish at the least, or if not now, then very soon.” John winces as he speaks, remembering that the kid’s dad is standing just on the other side if the car, listening to all of this. It was meant to sound reassuring, but he can hear how cold and fatalistic the words sound instead.

Robert meets John’s gaze briefly when he glances back, then resumes his visual sweep of the group before him, hands thrust deep in his pockets and his face creased with a frown. 

“It’s still too big a risk,” Harry says. She smirks when John looks at her again and adds, “And I’m not just saying that ’cause you’re my little brother.”

“You’re right, though,” Emily says, addressing Harry before turning to John. “The fact is, the rest of us have a much smaller chance of survival if anything were to happen to you.”

John scrubs a hand over his forehead, feeling a tension headache beginning to throb at the base of his skull as frustration flares through him. “All right then,” he bites out, dropping his hand to glare at his sister again. “Who would you pick? Who here is expendable enough for you?”

There’s another pregnant pause – _Definitely shocked,_ Sherlock’s voice purrs in the back if John’s mind – and then a soft voice behind him makes John turn, blinking in mild surprise.

“It not about anyone in particular being expendable,” Mary says, standing close by Kal’s side. Her gaze flickers around the group as though waiting for someone to contradict her, and then, when no one does, she continues, her words gaining a little more strength. “It’s just that, of all of us, the person with the most medical training is the _least_ expendable.”

John grimaces, blows out a long breath through his teeth, eyes on the ground, even as he listens to the general murmurs of assent from the people surrounding him. “Fine,” he says at last, no longer snappish – his temper suitably calmed by Mary’s quiet reasoning. “But that means we’re gonna need a volunteer, then.”

He can’t look at them. He’s not about to guilt anyone into this, keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the loam under his boots rather than meet the eyes of any if his companions.

Emily, Lorena, and Tom are off the list, John thinks. No one with children of their own. Hell, they should probably count Kal out too, with how much he helps in caring for his niece. Not the young marrieds either, Liam and Rebecca: John can’t ask them to go back in there after only a few weeks, not even a full month since they lost one of their own… 

“I’ll do it.”

The thin, young voice catches John by surprise, and he looks up just as Rebecca steps forward, Abigail and Harry both shuffling aside to let her through.

The silence in the courtyard is deafening. John doesn’t think he can be the only one thinking of her sister, mirror images of each other, one healthy and thriving while the other wasted away, a macabre portrait hidden in a back room, youth and vitality saved for only one of them. “You don’t have to,” he says quietly, ducking his head slightly to look her in the eye. “I’m sure someone else could—”

She shakes her head, eyes closing briefly and blonde hair shining in wisps about her face. “I want to. I want to help.”

John’s gaze flicks to Liam, standing behind her silent and sombre. He takes in their matching expressions – _identical_ – and knows he’s not the only one remembering Rachel today.

He nods once, blows out a breath, hands on his hips. “Right. Okay.” Then, looking up at the people gathered around them again, “Let’s get moving.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rachel & Rebecca are a couple of OCs who very suddenly announced themselves to me, fully formed, and declared that they would be taking part in this fic. I have an itch to write a side story to this series covering their journey before they reached the castle... Maybe after the main fic is done ;)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You two were practically inseparable a few days ago,” Harry goes on, “and now it’s like you’re chained to your bed. Though,” she cuts a look back up at him now, eyebrow quirking suggestively, “I suppose if you actually **were** chained to your bed, I’d be worried for an entirely **different** reason.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for some slightly sexist language this chapter, because both Sherlock and Harry are assholes like that.

There’s… banging. Noise. Loud, nearby, aggressive. He groans, scrubs the heel of his hand (left hand – no, wait, right, the one not holding the scotch (ache spinning outward from the shoulder, stabbing, slithering through his marrow with the motion)) across his eyes, growls in frustration when the noise only grows louder.

The banging— _knocking_ , knocking on his bedroom door, the door he  _specifically closed behind him so that no one would bother him._

“Go away!” Sherlock snarls.

There’s a huff of breath from the far side (scoffing, petulant, knows that voice, should be able to name it, would do if things weren’t so… _blurry_.)

The door jerks open, and Harriet Watson (right, yes, obviously he knew that) stands in the doorway, leans into the room, sneers down at him where he’s sat on the floor. “God, you’re a pathetic sight.”

“And you apparently don’t understand plain English,” Sherlock retorts, lifting the scotch bottle to his lips for another long draw.

Harriet sways (not just her, either, the whole room is twirling lazily about him, set adrift on the open sea below the cliffs) all three of her frowning down at him. “You’re drunk,” she announces.

“ _Excellent_ deduction!” He raises the bottle in the air, a toast to Harry’s absolutely _brilliant_ mental machinations. “Really, well spotted. Do you want a drink to celebrate your _amazing_  genius?” The liquor sloshes against the sides of its glass prison as his arm weaves through the air, extended toward her (someone has removed his bones, loosened the ligaments, how odd).

Harry’s expression turns thunderous, and then in the time it takes Sherlock to blink (eyelids moving so slowly, feel wet and heavy, full of sea water) she’s snatched the bottle out of his hand.

“Wha— _That’s mine!_ ” He scrambles to his feet (takes a few tries, floor unduly slick, slippery, heaving to and fro like the deck of a ship, has to twist and clutch at the side of his bed to lever himself up).

“Well then you shouldn’t’ve offered,” Harry snaps back at him and stomps over to the bedside table (scattering things around atop it, what is she— looking for the cork, of course, he knew that). Harry recaps the scotch and picks up the other two half-finished bottles (riesling and vodka) from the table, turning back toward him with a furious look (hands shaking slightly (opposite of John, stress exacerbates her symptoms rather than soothing them, John's hands would be steady right now, John's hands, rough, strong, precise, deceptively small, soaked in so much blood yet so caring, gentle—))

He shakes his head, feels as though his eyes have dislodged from their sockets and are rolling about inside his skull. “Go. Away.” He screws his eyes up, manages to force them into submission, force them to focus on Harry. 

“Fine,” she says, and swishes the scotch bottle in front of his face, “but I'm taking these with me.”

“ _No,_ ” Sherlock protests, finally gets his feet fully under him, points a finger in Harry’s face. “I am _meant_  to have those! For my— John— Doctor’s orders!” he crows at last, triumphant (same words she’d thrown at him so many times when he was forced to endure her care, how very fitting, back when John was still angry with him, when he could barely stand to be in the same room as Sherlock, so much time wasted, gone, irretrievable, too late now, _too soon_ , victory turning sour on his tongue—)

“Did you at least take some paracetamol first, before turning to this?” Harry demands, shaking the bottle in her hand again. “There are other painkillers, you know, ones that won’t kill you quite so fast.”

Sherlock snorts. “Dull!” He reaches to grab the scotch away from her.

She jerks it away, out of reach ( _wouldn’t_ be, normally, wouldn’t be at all difficult to get it back from her, if only he weren’t so damn... _wobbly_ ). “I really don’t think John meant for you to hide away and get drunk in the middle of the day when he ‘prescribed’ this to you,” Harry responds, snide, and sidesteps his next attempt (far too easily, leaves Sherlock staggering into her vacated space, overbalancing, correcting too slowly, reactions delayed). She turns and makes for the door, bottles tucked safely under her arms.

“What would _you_ know about it,” Sherlock snarls, hands braced and shaking on the bedside table as he rounds on her again.

Harry stops with her hand on the door, turns to glare back at him. “Quite a lot, actually,” she says, voice gone quiet and dead calm (Watson family trait: usually means someone’s about to get shot).

Sherlock scoffs. Shakes his head (ugh, god, no, don’t do that (world a swirling mess around him, aching, pounding, his head, his arm, his chest—)) He says through clenched teeth, “I can just get more from the larder.”

Harry stares at him a moment longer, and then she tips her head back, glaring at the ceiling. “ _God._ ” She stomps across the room again and shoulders her way past Sherlock to redeposit the bottles on the table behind him. “Fine, _fine!_  But you,” she says, and suddenly she’s looming close, closer, far too near, grabbing the shoulder of Sherlock’s jumper, yanking him toward the door, “are coming with me.”

“Unhand me!” Sherlock snarls, resisting as much as he can (complicated by the alcohol sloshing through his veins, sends him stumbling after her).

“Oh, shut it,” Harry says, dragging him across the hallway toward her own room. 

“Let— Go—” He struggles (utterly ineffective, would normally be able to break free of her grasp quite easily, damn alcohol weakening, slowing him (never had such trouble with cocaine)) as Harry kicks the door open and leans inside.

“Hold this,” she says and shoves a plastic laundry basket hard into Sherlock’s midsection (nearly overbalances, staggers into the door jamb as Harry finally releases her grip on his clothing). “Look at you,” she smirks, pushing him back into the hallway as she closes the bedroom door behind her, a second basket in her other hand, “weak as a little lamb.”

“Only compared to your monstrous lesbian strength!” he bites back ( _Not good,_ John scolds in his head.  _Really not good_ ), scrabbles for a hold on the empty basket like it’s a life preserver, finally regains his balance just as Harriet shoves him again.

“Better a big, strong lesbian than a walking, talking _dick_ ,” she spits, and pushes him down the hallway toward the stairs.

Sherlock gets a few steps out ahead of her, steadies himself, and turns, lips pulled back over his teeth, swings the basket at her like a weapon as she comes up alongside him – which Harry easily deflects, rolling her eyes and blocking his swing with her own basket.

“God, you are such a brat,” she says, and plants a hand on his back to shove him (again!) up the stairs.

“Stop doing that!”

“Walk faster!”

With Harry’s basket jammed into the small of his back, Sherlock stumbles out into the broad first storey corridor at the top of the staircase, whirling on her with a snarl the moment he’s able. “I’ve much better uses of my time than being the target of your vented aggression over your inability to engage in the sexual relationship you’re so obviously obsessing over at the moment!”

“Oh, _you’re_ one to talk,” Harry scoffs, scowling and shaking her head as she shoulders past him to the first room on the left of the stairway (stumbles only briefly, vision no longer swimming – movement, agitation have served to increase bloodflow, cleared his head of the (once-welcome) fog of alcohol, eased some of the stiff ache in his shoulder). A moment after she disappears into the gloom beyond the open doorway, the blackout curtain over the window is pulled back, illuminating the room with pale afternoon sunlight and letting in the sharp, cool breeze of the sea below.

“Brilliant repartee,” Sherlock replies coldly, glaring in at her from the doorway as she moves through the room he’s had little cause to visit since his initial exploration of the castle. Rather than being furnished as a bedroom, this chamber is lined with shelves and chests of drawers holding extra blankets and pillows, bath towels and flannels: a giant linen cupboard for the entire castle’s use (conveniently located on the upper floor where most of the castle’s population resides; supplies somewhat depleted as the temperature drops and people pile on more bedclothes to chase away the night’s chill (less so for couples, of course, bedmates create extra warmth, share bodyheat, lessen the need for inanimate means of heat retention (warmth, security, closeness, affection, intimacy— _stop_ ))). “Though the fact it has no basis in reality,” (she’s absolutely, completely incorrect about him, of course ( _has to be, must be, cannot afford to even **entertain** such a thought_ ), no idea at all what she’s talking about, assumptions and insinuations mucking up everything he’s working for, distractions, delusions, _not worth his time_ ), “does rather undermine your argument,” he sneers.

“ _God_ , you are such a pretentious _arse_.” Harry rolls her eyes expansively as she begins piling supplies into her own basket (heavy duvet, two microfibre blankets, an armful of clean flannels). “I’m not going to ask how you even _know_ about _my_ sorry love-life – because, obviously, you’re _you_ – but really, Sherly,” (as usual, ignores his bitten out, “ _Stop calling me that!”_ ) “denial doesn’t suit you, and seems a mite pointless, all things considered,” she says, then adds with another scowl at him, “And I am not obsessing!”

“No, you’re just so preoccupied with your desire for a romantic relationship that you’ve begun projecting it onto _me_ ,” Sherlock snipes in return, and finds he has to work to keep his hands from clenching and his feet from shuffling (dead giveaway, irritation, adrenaline, nervous energy (what has he to be nervous about? Nothing, surely (nothing, everything, _nothing_ , stop, stop it now, useless, pointless, impossible, _not worth thinking about!_ )))

Harry gives him a long, considering look (thoughtful, uncharacteristically observant, suddenly as opaque as her brother), then walks over to drop her now full basket in front of where he stands in the doorway before straightening and reaching for the other still clasped in his (twitchy, tense, anxious) hand. “If you’re not gonna help, you can at least hand that over so I can fill it,” she says at his initial, automatic resistance, her voice subdued, almost soft as she looks up at him.

Sherlock relinquishes the linen basket, takes a step back, into the hallway, away from Harriet Watson and whatever she might think she sees in his expression (planets whirling, too fast, circling their central point, star burning bright, brighter, nearing its collapse, its end, end of everything, black hole waiting to suck it all away, unstoppable now and looming so close—)

“Oi! Don’t you dare run off, I can’t carry both of these myself!” Harry says then, glaring at him again from around a shelf of bedding, effectively snapping him out of the enclosing cyclone of ( _unhelpful, unwanted, **useless**_ ) thoughts.

He scowls at her again, folding his arms across his chest. “There are at least ten other people in this place that could help you.”

“Most of them,” Harry says, filling the second basket similar to the first, “are _already_ off doing, you know, _productive_ things. They’re not holed up in their bedrooms like some crabby old hermit. Honestly, I was beginning to think you’d died in there.” She shoots him another look, tinged with her usual smirk now (joking), before turning away to fetch down more flannels and tea towels. Sherlock snorts, looks away to glare out at the empty hall. “You’d probably be in a better mood, too,” she calls from behind him, “if you didn’t stay cooped up in there all day. Some fresh air and company is sure to do you some good.”

“Oh, what? Should I come out and be _friendly?_ ” Sherlock snarls, turning back toward her. “Take part in the _scintillating_ discussion around the dining table of how much dehydrated milk we have left and if everyone’s drinking too much tea – which they are, by the way, the current stores will only last another few weeks unless a raiding party brings back more soon. But I suppose you think spending time with all those absolutely _stimulating_ people in this _fucking castle_ will suddenly make everything _completely fine_.”

Harry raises her eyebrows at him (comical, sarcastic, insipid, _annoying_ ) as she emerges from amongst the shelves at last, laden hamper in hand. She nudges the other basket pointedly toward him with a toe before shouldering past him out into the corridor. Begrudgingly, he bends to lift it and then follows her to the stairs (refuses to acknowledge the cries of relief from stiff muscles, transport held too long in stasis, seeking motion, activity, potential energy flowing eagerly into kinetic).

“You should at least spend more time with John,” Harry comments, several steps ahead of him. “ _That_ certainly helps put you in a better mood.”

Sherlock nearly misses a step following her down, catches himself with a hand on the wall and the other clutching at the basket against his thighs. Harry doesn’t notice.

“You two were practically inseparable a few days ago,” she goes on, “and now it’s like you’re chained to your bed. Though,” she cuts a look back up at him now, eyebrow quirking suggestively, “I suppose if you actually _were_ chained to your bed, I’d be worried for an entirely _different_ reason.”

“You—” He splutters, feels heat climbing his neck, flooding his cheeks (annoyance, anger, frustration ( _not_ embarrassment ( _How would **you** know?_ ))) Harry just smirks all the wider and leads the way out of the residential hall and through the castle’s main room. “That’s not funny,” he finally bites out.

“Bondage is _always_ funny,” Harry disagrees with a wide smile, half a step ahead of him still, but he catches up quickly as they descend the front steps to the courtyard. “Seriously, though,” she says, looking up at him as they walk shoulder to shoulder across the yard, “why the sudden recluse act? John’s been absolutely climbing the walls without you around.”

Sherlock snorts. “Except in the literal sense when he’s on guard duty, I highly doubt that.”

“Doubt it all you like, Sherly, it’s still true,” Harry says, then grins up at him. “There were a couple of times the last few days I thought he was finally gonna crack and break down your door.”

“Don’t be absurd,” he says, scowling at the path in front of them as they near their destination: the outbuilding connected to the rest of the castle grounds through a small passageway in the south-facing wall.

“Why not? You always are,” Harry smirks at him, swinging open the ancient iron gate over the doorway with one hand, the other holding her teetering basket against her hip. Wrinkling his nose, Sherlock follows, and they cross the short, fortified (enclosed with chainlink fencing and steel rebar (eight feet high currently; plans to build a metal mesh ceiling in future as well) with stones and concrete at the base (slightly more than half a meter high now and gradually rising, one of the many ongoing projects John has led with help from knowledgeable others amongst their community (cement works: Kal; fencing: Charles)) and wood planks higher up, offering concealment from any undead within sight range and adequate cover should they manage to get close enough to attack) walkway to what used to be the stables in the castle’s distant past.

There are voices up ahead, from within the building: one he recognises (the young blonde woman, arrived twenty five days ago, accompanied by her sister (deceased) and boyfriend/husband (living), likely in early stages of pregnancy (pending persistence of symptoms), fan of John’s blog, thought that damn hat would make a _marvellous_ Christmas gift) and one he doesn’t (the newcomer, obviously).

“It’s not so bad – I’m trying to think of it as a few days’ holiday from my chores, you know, look on the sunny side and all that. God, listen to me going on, I haven’t given you any chance to tell us about yourself.” That’ll be the blonde woman (Reyna? Ruby? Something like that.)

“I don’t mind,” the man replies (smiling, gregarious, sincere, audible in his tone alone) as Harry rounds the corner ahead of Sherlock. The room beyond is divided up into six stalls, once designed to keep horses and other beasts of burden, now retrofitted with floor-to-ceiling steel bars too close-set for a human to pass through and a sturdy, metal gate on the front of each, complete with several heavy padlocks. As Harry and Sherlock enter, the other two people (the newcomer and the blonde girl, as expected (Rose? Ruth?)) look up from where they’re each leaning in the open doorways of their respective cells, across from each other.

(Neither of them is holding the baby.)

“Got your linens here,” Harry announces, brandishing her overfull basket in front of her, “so you can finally get all settled in.”

“Oh, lovely!” Roxanne/Regan exclaims happily. She steps forward to take Sherlock’s basket (smiles up at him, blushing slightly (just like at Christmas – oh god is she going to blurt something about being his biggest fan again?)) before disappearing with it into her cubicle.

(There was definitely an infant before. In the sling. Which the man is no longer wearing.)

“ _Thanks_ ,” the new fellow says, leaning in and leering somewhat exaggeratedly at Harry as he takes the basket from her hands.

“Cheers,” she replies, eyes narrowing slightly though her smile remains firmly in place (stiff, sarcastic, instantaneous shift away from congenial accommodation to cool rejection – _not interested_ broadcast loud and clear).

He just quirks one eyebrow as he turns away (undeterred, confident, classically attractive if somewhat average-looking, brown hair, brown eyes, straight jawline and shoulders, neither bulky nor slim, a few inches taller than John though still a few shy of Sherlock’s height— and still no sign of the baby, where has the baby gone?)

“Well, he seems perfectly healthy,” a third voice says then, and Sherlock has a mere instant in which to be startled (not paying attention, should have noticed, should have realised, _where else would he be_ ) before John strides out of another of the empty cells, the heretofore missing baby cradled in his (capable, strong, gentle, doctorly) arms. He looks up, though, and seems to freeze upon seeing Harry and Sherlock.

“I guess that’s my cue,” Reba/Rosalynn says, emerging from her stall to reach for the infant with a smile (the man doesn’t look back from where he’s unpacking the basketful of bedclothes and other linens inside his cell). John hands the baby over, his eyes leaving Sherlock’s only long enough to ensure she’s got a secure hold of the squirmy little human.

“You know, I just realised I never even asked what his name is,” Rochelle/Rhea remarks, holding the infant against her shoulder as John steps back, looks over at Sherlock again (eyes dark and hooded, hesitant but not fearful: something he doesn’t want to tell Sherlock, some subject he doesn’t want to broach yet knows he must do).

“I trust you can handle two empty baskets on your own now,” Sherlock says to Harry, turning quickly on his heel, reaching for the door (as, behind him, the newcomer says, “Oh, er— Rory. We’d, uh, decided to call him Rory, before my wife...” He trails off pathetically, earns a sympathetic murmur from Regina/Robin).

“Where are you going?” Harry demands behind him. (“We’ll bring you down some dinner in a bit,” John tells them, and then his footsteps are approaching, fast, hurrying, trying to catch up with Sherlock, but he’s already through the door and around the corner and out into the open air of the courtyard, even as John calls his name, he’s away, he’s escaped—)

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You’re my best friend, Sherlock. And nothing is ever going to change that."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters are no longer Britpicked, as I haven't been able to get ahold of my Britpicker in a bit :( Feel free to chime in with suggestions/edits if you have them!

“Sherlock!” John hisses, but the detective’s already gone, disappeared around the bend in the walkway and probably back inside the castle proper soon. With a frustrated sigh, John shakes his head, turns back around, figures he may as well as finish up here, may as well spend time worrying about people who actually _want_ his attention—

“Uh-uh, go after him!” His sister is stood right behind him, making John jump when he comes nearly face-to-face with her, and she gives him a solid nudge toward the door.

“But—”

“I’ll handle things here – _go!_ ”

She’s completely serious, John realises, and with one last look back at her, Robert, Rebecca, and the baby, he turns and dashes away to follow Sherlock.

Harry _can_ see to the rest of the quarantine procedures from there, without John’s help. She knows the routine, knows to lock them each into their separate cells for their own protection, to keep them from hurting anyone else should they turn up infected and to keep from being hurt themselves if the other person should grow ill. The only risk now is the baby – if the baby is sick, Rebecca’s putting her life on the line, at least at high risk of infection even if a three-week-old infant isn’t likely to be able to do the sort of damage an adult zombie can. Still...

John shakes those thoughts away, instead focusing ahead of him, on the lanky figure across the courtyard, just nearing the castle’s front steps as John bursts through the gate separating the yard from the stables. “Sherlock!” he calls again, breaking into a jog, keeping his voice low out of habit but certainly loud enough to reach his friend’s ears. “Wait!”

Sherlock stops at the bottom step, looking back at John with wide, pale eyes – like a deer caught in the headlights, John thinks ruefully as he slows to a walk a few metres away.

“Just... wait, please?” John says, hands up, placating, as he approaches.

Sherlock’s lips press into a flat, frowning line as he regards John, but he doesn’t immediately dash away again, so John takes that as leave to continue.

“Can we talk? Er, not _here_ , obviously,” he amends quickly as the other man’s eyes narrow. John looks around, feeling suddenly exposed, hyperaware of the others all around them, standing guard on the wall, working in the garden, talking in the great hall just above them. Inside, in the seclusion of a bedroom or a disused chamber, they might find privacy – but Sherlock is already looking at him like a caged animal, boxed in and jumpy. The very last thing John wants is to make him feel cornered, forced into anything he doesn’t want... especially considering the subject at hand. He glances around at the courtyard again, the walls and the trees beyond, turns back to Sherlock as an idea starts to form: “Come with me for a walk?”

Sherlock’s eyes dart away and back, a frown creasing his face. “There are zombies out there,” he says slowly, as if he suspects John has forgotten this very important fact.

John licks his lips, finds himself fighting a smile. “Not just now,” he says, and tips his head toward the guards, “else they’d be sounding the alarm.”

He watches Sherlock’s eyes flicker, briefly, toward the wall, watches his lips push into a moue of dissatisfaction, edging toward a pout. “I haven’t got my gun with me,” he says obstinately. “Not terribly safe, all things considered.”

“I’ve got mine,” John shrugs, his hand resting lightly on the Browning at his hip, then adds, “You said danger...” He leaves it hanging, holds his breath, and waits.

Sherlock stares at him, frowning mouth parted ever so slightly, and for half a second John could almost name the glimmers of emotion on that pale face: something like fear, something like sadness – but then Sherlock’s expression has shuttered once more, his usual cool composure firmly in place, sentiment back under his iron control. He gives a single, sharp nod, and gestures toward the main gate with one fine-boned hand. “Lead on, then, Captain.”

John smiles wryly at the title and does so. Once outside the wall, the gate closed securely behind them, John can’t deny the sense of impending doom he feels descending on him, snuffing out the feeble beginnings of humour they’d shared just moments ago. He sets a leisurely pace into the trees around the castle compound, eyes scanning the surrounding area and hand resting, ready, as always, on his gun. His mind, however, is on other matters, thoughts churning unhappily as he searches for the proper place to start.

How do you ask your best friend, who you’re completely and utterly in love with, whether you’ve cocked everything up and he’d like you to now leave him alone forever, thank you very much?

He cuts a look across at Sherlock, walking along beside him, eyes tracking the movements of the trees and the wind in their stripped boughs, the ripples of dark, low-hanging clouds overhead. Hands stuffed in the pockets of his too-big jeans, he looks oddly diminished, lonely, without the furl of a greatcoat around him. Sherlock doesn’t look back at him as they walk, though John doesn’t for a moment doubt that the detective is aware of his gaze – Sherlock is aware of everything, knows everything, all the time, every little detail of every single thing going on around him. He probably knows exactly what John is thinking right now, what he’s going to say based on the wrinkles in his jumper or the way he’s combed his hair today.

 _No point dragging it out then,_ John thinks, and takes a deep breath. “I think... I should apologise,” he says, looking down at the ground, watching the scrub grass pass under his boots as they walk – and then tells himself to stop being such a coward, and looks over at Sherlock again.

Sherlock still doesn’t meet John’s gaze, his face turned away and eyes downcast as he keeps pace beside him. His posture would almost seem relaxed to a casual observer, but John can see the tension in the detective’s shoulders, the way his hands are balled into fists inside his pockets. “For what, John?” he asks after a quiet moment, deep voice rumbling out like thunder, a weary growl of noise, and still he doesn’t look up.

“For—” John had rather expected to receive a scoff of disdain in response, possibly a diatribe about the banality of sentiment, the weak minds of those who insist on focusing on their _feelings_. He looks around once more, through the trees, watching for movement, fingers tapping restlessly against his holster. “For the other night. Under the mistletoe,” he finishes at last, finds he has to push the words out through clenched teeth.

Beside him, Sherlock sucks in a short, sharp breath, cuts off in the middle, quickly smothered. John’s head whips around at the sound, automatically seeking his friend’s gaze, but Sherlock is looking resolutely away, brows knit and mouth pressed into a tight, flat line.

Okay, so he doesn’t want to talk about it. _That bad, huh?_ a snide little voice in the back of John’s mind murmurs, and he shoves it roughly away, stomach clenching dangerously. This isn’t about _John’s_ feelings, his pride, or even what he wants for them – this is about _Sherlock_.

And Sherlock is clearly uncomfortable with this conversation. _“Not my area,”_ he’d told John that first night, sitting in the front window at Angelo’s, scoping out a killer they wouldn’t recognise for hours yet. Someone his age being completely inexperienced with romance is perhaps uncommon, but certainly not impossible, John supposes. Hell, as far as John knows, getting texts from Irene Adler is the closest thing to a relationship he’s ever had. John had tried to suss it out at the time, feel around the edges of the thing, _observe_ , as Sherlock was always telling him, had finally broke down and asked Mrs Hudson, then Lestrade...

He shakes his head, tamps down on the spike of old pain and anger. _Not now._

The real question here, what John’s been debating with himself since this morning, since he’d started putting the pieces of the last few days together, is: was Sherlock’s reaction to the kiss one of trepidation, uncertainty over a new sort of affection he’s little – or even no – experience with? Or is he actually completely uninterested in any sort of romantic attachments? Or... Or is it just John that he doesn’t want?

He grits his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. _This is **not** about **you!**_

It is an important distinction, though, and not one Sherlock’s likely going to be willing to lay out in great detail for John. _Look at the **evidence!**_ he can practically hear his genius friend berating him. Look at the way Sherlock had frozen when it happened, how he’d locked himself away in his room ever since, how he’d resented John’s coming to find him and then rushed John out of there quick as he could, conceding to the bare minimum to satisfy him instead of putting up his usual fight, how he’d literally _flinched_ when John touched him at breakfast, how violently he’d reacted when John had suggested coming out on the raid – god, was that really just this morning? – and how he’d run when he’d seen John in the quarantine house, beating a hasty retreat for the castle, only reluctantly agreeing to this... this...

Right. Okay. The pattern doesn’t exactly take a consulting detective to spot.

 _Get it over with,_ John’s pragmatic side tells him, _like tearing off a plaster. You’ll both be better for it in the end._

John takes a deep breath, tries to swallow around the hard lump that’s lodged itself in his throat. “I shouldn’t have... done that,” he says stiffly. God but he’s shite at these things, no wonder Sherlock looks ready to bolt. “It was inappropriate,” he pushes on, closes his eyes, takes a steadying breath. “I’m sorry.”

He hears Sherlock snort, opens his eyes to see the other man still frowning down at the dirt. John’s just opening his mouth to say more, to ask how Sherlock feels, what he thinks of all this, to fill in the holes left by John’s mere conjecture, but then Sherlock is speaking. “Of course you are,” he mutters, then moves on to full sneer, “It was _quite_ ‘inappropriate,’ wasn’t it? Won’t be happening again, I suppose?” He finally looks at John now, icy gaze piercing and sharp, lip curled and nostrils flared, ethereal, beautiful face now a mask of derision, anger – and, underneath it all, so subtle John wouldn’t know it if he didn’t know this man so well: hurt, fear, defensiveness.

“No,” John hears himself respond. He’s cold, gooseflesh standing up on his arms and across his shoulders. “No, of course it won’t.”

Sherlock’s eyes drop away at last. He nods once, sharply. With finality.

“You’re my best friend, Sherlock,” John blurts then, just as the detective is shifting his weight, turning as if to return to the castle. John wishes for some way to impress the words onto the other man, imprint them on that giant, brilliant skull of his, make him understand that all John really wants in this world is for Sherlock to be safe and happy, for him to know how very much John cares for him, that there is nothing, _nothing at all_ that John wouldn’t do for him. Sherlock looks back at him and John catches and holds his gaze, silently willing him to accept that, to really believe the truth of it. “And nothing is ever going to change that.”

Pale eyes bore into John’s for a long moment, and then something finally seems to give in Sherlock’s frame, some tightly-wound tension leaving him all at once. He nods, more slowly than before, looking at the ground again. “No. That will never change,” he finally agrees, voice quiet, subdued.

John feels himself begin to relax as well, tries a slight smile, though it still feels a bit odd, a bit forced. They’ll get better, though, _he’ll_ do better, won’t keep making the same stupid, blundering mistakes, assuming he knows what Sherlock’s thinking, what he wants.

 _Just because he didn’t want Moriarty doesn’t mean he wants **you** ,_ that same nasty little voice from earlier needles him, and John squashes it only half-heartedly this time, eyes on Sherlock’s back as he leads the way back toward the wall.

It’s not wrong, after all.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sherlock Holmes is not a good person. But, if he tries very, very hard, he can sometimes behave in ways that cause him to be mistaken for a good person._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the lack of update last week! Our internet was out for a few days and then my (old) laptop finally died, and I had to scramble to find a new(ish) one I could afford. I keep all my writing in my dropbox, so luckily no fic was lost, but I had to spend several days catching up on the schoolwork I'd missed while the internet was down. I *might* end up having to go to biweekly updates in the near future, as I'm getting ready to move to another state in about a month. We'll see, though~
> 
> There's one quote from _A Study in Pink_ and one from _The Blind Banker_ (plus a few from last chapter), but I'm sure you all can spot them without my help ;)
> 
> As aways, Glasscannon's edits and encouragement make all this possible <3

Sherlock doesn’t see the ground passing beneath his feet, the trees around them as they make their way back to the castle walls, is distinctly (painfully) aware of John following silently a pace behind him (slightly off to the left, could brush shoulders (or hands, fingers, their non-dominant hands in line, how convenient) were they in step together).

They’re _not_ in step though, neither physically nor mentally, that much has been made perfectly clear. Sherlock knew this, of course, has known, all this time (never in step, never together, never matching, _especially_ mentally, not ever, not with anyone (thought John was different, though, knew he was, came closer than anyone else had done, had _hoped—_ ))

(High-pitched ringing in his ears, blurring about the edges of his vision, trembling, shivers raking down his arms, fingers twitching, curling, all outside of his control – psychosomatic responses, the mind affecting the transport, transport affecting the mind, a terrible, endless feedback loop he can’t seem to escape.)

John draws breath ( _again_ ) as if to speak, though still no words come. ( _“Nothing is ever going to change that.”_ (What more is there to say?))

The gate creaks open before them as they approach, the courtyard coming into view sliver by sliver, and Sherlock feels a frisson go through him – in a moment, he’ll be free to excuse himself, to retreat to his room, free to run and flee and seek the solace of solitude, to drown his sorrows and perhaps finally smother _the fucking pain burning through his chest cardiac muscles spasming lungs rebelling fire fire fire make it stop make it stop John please just make it stop—_

(Idiot. John’s not coming. Not for _you_. Not ever again. ( _“No, of course it won’t.”_ ))

Sherlock doesn’t break into a run. He walks through the gate like a normal, _civilised_ person, with John still trailing along behind him.

He’s so utterly disgusted with himself – maudlin and moody, so easily overcome by emotions, by _sentiment_ , and for what? The confirmation of what he’s known all along, what’s been staring him in the face every day, for _years_ , evidence plainly displayed, outright stated from the very beginning ( _“Of course we’ll be needing two.”_ ) John doesn’t want— _that—_ Not with men, and certainly not with Sherlock, of all people. A friendly peck under the mistletoe was one thing, one silly, meaningless little gesture, swept up by the Christmas festivities, holiday cheer, everyone so _chummy_ , obviously it had affected John as well, John couldn’t help it, of course, it was all just a bit of fun, perfectly innocent, and Sherlock had _thought_ he’d got his reactions under control, thought he’d smothered all traces of it, betrayed by his own _bloody transport—_

Apparently not so, though. Not if John thought it necessary to call this little chat. He must have seen, must have realised (such inconvenient timing to suddenly grow so perceptive, John, _why_ couldn’t he remain as blind as every other day, this day of all days), must have felt it necessary to make it abundantly clear (because, after all, Sherlock is so _spectacularly ignorant_ in these sorts of things), laid out in excruciating detail how very succinctly nothing like that, nothing like what Sherlock must have so _obviously_ longed for in those moments under the mistletoe (kissing touching holding leaning warmth closeness intimacy belonging home) would _ever_ happen between them.

He bows his head, jaw clenching, hands curling into fists, breath rasping quietly through his throat, all beyond his control.

None of this is _new_ information, though. The thought sits like a stone against his breastbone, impeding respiration, swallowing, even causing the beats of his heart to feel awkward, off-balance.

It’s _not_ , though, Sherlock frowns to himself, halfway across the courtyard and John still silent behind him (a guard escorting a prisoner to the gallows, a fitting image). It is, perhaps, the most clearly it’s ever been stated, one of the few times John has felt the need to spell it out explicitly to Sherlock’s face (normally handled in quiet comments and asides, protestations to assuming strangers, the topic so rarely allowed into their personal interactions, kept carefully tucked away, unacknowledged except for when absolutely necessary ( _“At least I hope you weren’t.”_ )) But it’s always _been there_ , a basic truth of their existence whether or not either of them addressed it head-on: _John is not gay_. End of discussion. (Nothing else matters besides.)

This fact only throws the ridiculousness of Sherlock’s current reactions into even sharper relief: it is utterly unreasonable, completely unfounded, ludicrous to behave as if he has somehow been _surprised_ by this turn of events.

It’s pointless, Sherlock decides, teeth grinding unpleasantly as he forces his head up once more. He’s acting like a _child_ – has done for the last few days, today especially. His behaviour at breakfast was reprehensible, not because he cares one whit about how his _etiquette_ is perceived by those around him, but because of his absurd, _emotional_ responses (caught off-guard by John’s amicability, easy affection, innocent touches between friends (shouldn’t _affect_ him so), overreacted, caused a _scene_ , ran away in a fit of immature flailing in the face of his _feelings_ (unwanted, unhelpful, _do nothing but complicate things, ruin **everything!**_ ))

It was likely that display this morning, he surmises, that had caught John’s attention, had been the catalyst in his decision to finally address Sherlock’s (unfortunate, unwelcome, terrible, _obvious_ ) attachment, whereas he’d apparently been happy to let the issue lie over the intervening time since the kiss (had probably hoped it wouldn’t need to be explained, had thought Sherlock _intelligent enough_ to grasp the difference between meaningless jest among friends and any sort of _offer_ ).

But that is precisely the point, what he’s been working for all this time, exactly what Stage Three of his plan, following the construction of the smoke diffuser and the water turbine, is meant to address: where Stages One and Two show his usefulness, his willingness and ability to not be a burden upon the community’s survival, Stage Three will prove that he needn’t be a burden _personally_ on John.

The situation is not unsalvageable: this recent debacle has perhaps thrown a snarl into his efforts, laid doubt in John’s mind regarding Sherlock’s ability to remain objective, to hold himself back, _respectfully_ , as any good _friend_ would, and never seek for more than is on offer – but it’s not an insurmountable obstacle, not if he’s able to make the correct, strategic choices moving forward. Sherlock need only remember to keep his decisions firmly grounded in logic, in his brain, that the flimsy, futile flutterings of other organs have no place in these manoeuvres.

If only he could undo the damage caused this morning, go back and approach the situation with full reason and calm, rather than—

 _Oh_. Oh, of _course._

They’re nearing the castle’s front entrance now. It’s possible John intends to return to the quarantine stables (double checking on Harriet’s work, she won’t like that, but John is so fastidious, in both his medical and military duties, the sole protector between these people and the threat of undead infection, always so reliable, stalwart and unwavering), but he’s followed Sherlock this far without breaking step, and the deepening twilight around them as the short, northern winter day draws to an end means that the timing is just right (voices up ahead, in the great hall, clink of dishware, plates and cups on the table and a large dutch oven buried amongst the coals, too early yet to smell any cooking but the sounds are confirmation enough).

He schools his features. Takes a breath. Thinks (hopes) he can trust his voice not to fail him. Turning to look back over his shoulder, face perfectly neutral, Sherlock asks, “Dinner?”

John looks surprised (brows rising, blinks rapidly several times), then relieved, a tentative smile beginning to break across his face. It’s an olive branch, a peace offering, something they’ve done countless times before, a return to what they’ve always been, and in such a large group setting it has none of the dangerous overtones of a _date_ of some of their previous, more private meals – and it appears to be working. “You’re eating?” John asks then, eyes narrowing slightly (suspicious of ulterior motives already (good, John (terrible timing, though, pity))).

Sherlock fights the urge to roll his eyes, (mostly) succeeds. “Obviously.” He’s not actually hungry (he’s _not_ (finally beginning to wrestle his bloody transport into submission once more, thank god)), but he supposes the meal will be unavoidable, especially if he’s to keep from drawing unnecessary attention to himself this time – John is, after all, a doctor at heart, and he’s long years’ of practice monitoring Sherlock’s consumption levels.

John’s smile widens, warms (sunlight, cloud cover breaking apart— _stop_ ) at Sherlock’s response, and he increases his pace slightly, nearly even with Sherlock as they climb the stairs.

It’ll be a simple enough task to recreate the conditions from this morning’s breakfast, he thinks as they enter the great hall. The key difference, of course, will be the absence of a disturbance, Sherlock’s reflexive actions making him into an unwitting distraction, John’s attention diverted by his intrinsic need to nurture, to protect all those under his care. If John perceives Sherlock – his friend, his _best_ friend, by his own admission – as being upset or hurt, it prevents him from finding the peace of mind necessary to establish new, more productive connections, disrupting what should be the natural progression of a healthy, developing relationship.

He’s prepared this time, though, knows exactly what needs to be done and how to do it, a simple analysis of cause and effect, moving parts that will react in specific ways to one another once set in motion. He surveys the room as John leads the way toward the spring to wash up (food being prepared, dishes being laid out on the table, people talking and laughing and working together and no one sitting yet, good – timing will need to be precise, though shouldn’t be terribly difficult given the known social attitudes amongst their various neighbours).

John offers to help with the preparations, refilling the eclectic collection of kettles with purified water to be heated for tea, bullies Sherlock into helping him with a stern look (and then a triumphant smile when Sherlock complies, smothered after just a moment, lips pursed, pink tongue peaking out in between them (tongues have such an interesting texture about them, how might John’s feel, how might it taste, already knows the feel of John’s lips on his cheek— _STOP!_ ))

There are more people present now than this morning – dinner is a more communal affair than breakfast, the castle’s inhabitants trickling downstairs whenever they happen to wake, but here, in the evenings, this is when they gather about the fire to ward off the growing dark of night, huddle together against the flesh-eating world beyond their walls. Sherlock watches them all as they lay the table, begin ladling food out into serving dishes, brewing tea – waiting for his moment.

Finally, the preparations are complete, and he’s only a step behind when Mary Morstan takes her seat at the table. Just like this morning: across and one to the right (his right, her left, _John’s_ right), Sherlock slides into his chair, only now considers the possibility that John won’t follow him. (Half a second of crippling doubt, edged with hysteria, has he ruined everything already, hamstrung his plans with his own inane emotional responses, driven John away and destroyed any chance of setting things right between them because of his own stupid, _stupid_ —)

John sits down on Sherlock’s left, directly across from Professor Morstan, the same as ever (if a few inches further away from Sherlock than usual, the chasm between them yawning open out there under the trees and now refusing to close).

Sherlock releases the breath held tight in his chest, slow, silent (panic, utterly useless, idiotic, he knows John’s patterns too well to give in to such fears). Around them, the castle’s other residents are beginning to take seats as well, Kal across from Sherlock, Emily and Sasha beside him, all chattering and smiling and enjoying one another’s company. Sherlock asks Mary a question about her area of expertise (Trojan War, Helen, men scrambling over each other for the favour of a single woman). Her face lights up and in moments she’s talking animatedly, including John in her conversation, occasionally some of the others as well. Harry comes in, fetches herself a plate of food, dithers for a moment as to where to sit (seats on either side of Sherlock and John both open; her brother offers safety, low-risk; next to Sherlock puts her nearer her goal, the object of her desire staring her in the face; she finally sinks into the chair on Sherlock’s right, smirks at his scowl of distaste (covering her nerves, obvious) before looking across the table to engage Emily in conversation).

Sherlock turns back toward John and Mary, smiles and listens in and nods along with whomever happens to be speaking, eats his food, sips his tea, resists the urge to flee, the call of escape, of oblivion, alcohol smearing the colours in front of his eyes before blessed darkness claims him once more. No, he must remain, must _endure_ , to leave now would only cause a distraction, only derail the careful plans he’s finally set to rights once more.

Sherlock Holmes is not a good person. He’s well aware of this fact. He accepts it. But, if he tries very, very hard, he can sometimes behave in ways that cause him to be _mistaken_ for a good person. It is always in an attempt to get something he wants, and it is never a selfless act. Even right now, a simple observer might perceive him fostering the beginnings of a romantic attachment between his best friend, John Watson, and a woman who is suitably intelligent, attractive, and supportive, who is, by all accounts, the exact sort of _good_ that John appreciates, to which he is attracted, and that he himself embodies (the sort that Sherlock could never himself achieve, not really, not in anything more than little fits and bursts, despicable forgeries). By all appearances, the thing for which Sherlock hopes most in this moment is that his friend might be happy, in a stable, healthy, normal relationship.

An uninformed observer would mistake this for a selfless desire.

That observer would be wrong, of course. No, Sherlock’s actions now are for one incredibly simple and incredibly selfish purpose: if John is happy and satiated enough in his utterly ordinary romantic attachment, then he will not so easily grow tired of Sherlock. Or, he will do, of course, eventually, impossible not to do, Sherlock is so very trying, he _knows_ this – but, this way, that fatigue will not necessitate one or the other of them leaving. How many times at Baker Street had John reached the end of his patience, had declared that he was “going out,” that he needed to “get some air” – always following a row, Sherlock in one of his _moods_ , incorrigible, intolerable, and then always followed by stomping feet rushing down the stairs, the street door slamming, John marching away down the road with hands fisted in his pockets and shoulders hunched and never once looking back at Sherlock standing at the window.

There’s nowhere to go in here, though: the castle may be large enough to shelter them all from the undead, but it is nothing to the sprawl of London, nothing to Sherlock’s all-encompassing misery, the havoc he wreaks on those around him. If their friendship is to survive, John needs to be able to escape, needs a respite from it all, a respite from _Sherlock_.

It’s like a pressure valve, allowing steam to escape from a cooking pot, averting catastrophe lest the whole thing explode. It’s an apt metaphor, and Sherlock knows all too well what form such catastrophe would take in their lives, what would happen when Sherlock inevitably ruins everything, when the last of John’s patience finally evaporates and his anger boils over: John hasn’t the luxury of moving out here, though, the ability to leave Sherlock boxed up and forgotten in the back of a cupboard, to move on with his life and never have to think about his mad flatmate ever again. And the castle, the _community_ , needs John. If either of them were to leave, it would most assuredly have to be Sherlock. He’s not a doctor, he doesn’t _help_ people, doesn’t protect or comfort them. What use is a consulting detective now, when ninety percent of the world is already dead and no mystery at all as to how they ended up that way? He’s nothing but another mouth to feed now, yet another life to worry over, another body taking up room that could house someone else, someone far more deserving, useless, _stupid_ , a vast mind tearing itself to pieces and destroying all around him in the process, a burden, deadweight—

He’s tried not to be, though. He doesn’t want to leave. It’s safe here, and warm, a roof over his head and stable ground under his feet, he spent so long on the road and he was so tired, so many endless days, searching, seeking, and finally he _found John_. (Images hazy and dreamlike now, John’s voice, John’s face, John’s gun—)

He doesn’t want to have to leave John again. He won’t. Not unless John makes him.

And so this is necessary. So often before, John had fled to the sanctuary of the girlfriend-of-the-week’s flat, had sought comfort and normality after a trying day of dealing with Sherlock. He can have that here, too, with Mary. They’ll be together and likely move into a single bedroom at some point in the near future and Sherlock will keep his distance. John will have his asylum. Sherlock won’t have to leave.

And Sherlock will get to keep John – keep his friendship, at least.

Sherlock isn’t a good person, but if he tries hard enough he can fake it, and maybe even cause a few good things to happen, things that any truly good, selfless person would actually, sincerely want for their best, their one and only friend, things an actually good person wouldn’t feel hatefully conflicted over, wouldn’t even consider wanting to undercut, certainly wouldn’t feel the desire to then curl up in the deepest, darkest hole available and surrender to oblivion upon accomplishing the goal of their friend’s assured happiness… No, a truly good person would never be anywhere near as selfish.

John would never be so selfish.

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Harry never has been subtle about her sense of humour – even when she’s not drinking, she’s loud, effusive, almost belligerent in her joking. You either laugh with her, or you want to punch her, as John can personally attest from the majority of his childhood. Not that she wasn’t usually up for a fight too, at home, at school, on the football pitch. They both were, of course, always have been, if John’s really being honest with himself. Easier to solve your disputes with fists and feet and headlocks than to sit down and talk about things like rational, mature adults._
> 
> So sorry about posting late, yall! This was the chapter that would not end... ~~For those who didn't see the announcement on tumblr, I've officially gone down to biweekly updates for the foreseeable future - but even with that, this chapter is still a few days late, sigh. Next update will be on Friday July 11th!~~  
>  ETA Jan 2015: I moved across the country and then did a(nother) semester of school while my stress levels skyrocketed and my health took a nosedive. I'm now out of school & focusing my time on writing once more! You can check [my tumblr](http://jezunya.tumblr.com/tagged/my-fics) for updates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Both Watsons have seriously volcanic tempers  
> 2\. Warning for a brief use of homophobic slurs  
> 3\. Some discussion of LGBTQ issues & identity policing  
> 4\. Zombies!

John wakes the next morning with thoughts of Sherlock swimming, dreamlike, through his mind: how he’d looked under the trees yesterday evening, tense and surly before finally relaxing, finally accepting John’s apology, his reassurances, and then sitting next to John at dinner once more, actually taking part in the conversation around them, quiet but present, if not fully at ease then moving in that direction at least. It was such a relief, such a monumental change – almost as if the last few days had never happened.

He scrubs a hand over his eyes, sits up, stretches, puts his bad shoulder through a few rotations. They’ll be fine now, he tells himself as he stands, reaches over to push the curtain open, letting in grey morning sunlight and the cool, salty sea breeze. They’ll be just fine, just as they ever were, just so long as John can keep from blundering into yet another taboo, muddying the waters with things he alone wants without so much as a pause to consider how Sherlock feels about it all. He can do that.

He shakes his head, crosses to his chest of drawers to wash and dress. They’ve other matters to worry about today, anyhow: namely, another raid to make up for the small haul yesterday, and specifically baby formula, nappies, and... Christ, John doesn’t know. He’ll have to get one of the parents among their group to make him up a list of necessary baby things. Or maybe one of them will want to come along when John asks for volunteers.

Jeans, a clean vest, shirt and warm jumper, thick socks. His coat and holster are draped haphazardly over one of the posts at the foot of his bed – he really ought to get a coat rack or at least a chair in here. Maybe they’ll do a run for more furniture one of these days, though the new armchairs in the great hall were both a Christmas miracle and a ruddy nightmare to move. Maybe he’ll just hammer a few hooks into the wall. That’d certainly be easier.

He bends down, reaching for his boots where they’re stored under the foot of his bed, straight and neat and out of the way – but a gleam catches his eye, a spot of pale sunlight reflecting on something under the bed, something out of place, just out of sight when he was standing upright. Frowning, John gets down on his knees, reaches out, grasps the dully shining thing with one hand, surprised when it gives with a soft crinkle under his fingers.

He remembers several days ago, Christmas morning, retrieving Sherlock’s gift from up here, tossing aside a plastic package he found sitting atop the box without looking at it. John had assumed at the time that it was just some article of clothing or other that he’d picked up on a raid but hadn’t yet got to unpacking, and it has apparently lain here forgotten ever since. He pulls it out into the light, blinks several times at the frankly alarming shade of red visible around the edges of the note taped to the front, feels his brows climbing toward his hairline.

The note is written in Harry’s hand:

 _Thought these might come in useful!_ Followed by a little winking smiley face, and then, _A very happy Christmas to the both of you!_

What the hell?

“What the hell,” he says out loud, lifting the paper out of the way to peer a bit closer at the bag’s contents. They’re... pants. Several pair, all bright red, and inscribed with cheeky little messages in white text.

 _Don’t Pass on This Ass!_ one pair proclaims across its rear. Flipping the package over, he’s greeted with _Standing Ovation!_ on the crotch region of another.

“Harry, what the hell were you thinking,” John mutters, shaking his head again. He starts to shove the pants back under the bed, irritated at his sister’s colourful taste in gag gifts, but then thinks better of it and reaches for his backpack instead. Better to dispose of them quickly, no point in keeping the bloody things up here in his room, after all, and it’ll be easy enough to bin them in town later. He pulls his boots on, laces them up quickly, grabs his jacket, gun, and backpack before making his way out to the stairs, frowning to himself all the while.

Harry never has been subtle about her sense of humour – even when she’s not drinking, she’s loud, effusive, almost belligerent in her joking. You either laugh with her, or you want to punch her, as John can personally attest from the majority of his childhood. Not that she wasn’t usually up for a fight too, at home, at school, on the football pitch. They both were, of course, always have been, if John’s really being honest with himself. Easier to solve your disputes with fists and feet and headlocks than to sit down and talk about things like rational, mature adults.

 _Which you are supposed to be now,_ John reminds himself sternly as he emerges from the staircase and crosses the first floor residential hall toward the dining room. He’ll just pull Harry aside, maybe ask her to come along on the raid today, and calmly explain why she can’t keep doing things like this, that it makes Sherlock— It makes _both_ of them uncomfortable.

Harry’s voice reaches his ears before he spots her. “What, no wet dreams about my brother last night?”

John feels the blood drain from his face, looks around until he finds them sitting in a pair of recliners across the room. “Shut up!” Sherlock hisses at her venomously, apparently trying to hide behind the thick book in his hands.

“Oh, come on, I bet you’ve got loads of nasty fantasies about him – not that I want details!” she adds, holding her hands up and grinning widely as Sherlock snarls at her.

This has got to stop. John walks a bit faster, starts to call out, “Harry—”

Sherlock twists away from her in disgust, and in so doing turns toward John, their eyes meeting across the breadth of the room – and there’s no mistaking the sudden jolt of horror, of _fear_ in those pale irises.

“God, you’re so _sensitive_ ,” Harry wheedles beside him. Sherlock flinches away, turning round, terrified eyes on her now.

“ _Harry!_ ” John’s voice seems to tear out of him, a roar of sound that comes all the way up from his toes. His sister jumps – everyone in the room does, really – and both she and Sherlock look over at him with wide eyes as he marches toward them. “Get your gun,” John bites out, gesturing back toward her room in the residential hall. “We’re going on a raid.”

“Okay,” Harry says slowly, pushing to her feet. “What’s the matter, someone piss in your weetabix?”

“ _Now!_ ” John barks, hands fisting at his sides. Harry cocks her head to one side, brows raised in a look of incredulity. After a moment, she shakes her head and walks past him with hands raised once more, apparently acquiescing to whatever irrational mood has gripped her brother. Once she’s disappeared around the corner, John looks around at the rest of the room. “Anyone else wants to come along, feel free to take the second car,” he says, voice still hard, though marginally calmer, volume moderated now at least. He’s met with silent, wide-eyed stares: still shocked at his outburst.

John blows out a breath, shakes his head. Finally raises his eyes to meet Sherlock’s gaze. The detective is watching him, expression unreadable, though if John had to pick a descriptor for it, he’d go with _wary_. “Sorry,” he says quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He wants to ask if Sherlock’s okay, make sure Harry hasn’t upset him too badly, hasn’t undone everything they talked about yesterday – but he knows what sort of response that would earn him, the derisive snort and eyeroll that he’s oh so familiar with. _Sentiment!_ “I’m gonna talk to her. It... It won’t happen again,” he says instead. God, he’s repeating himself now. Is this the sum of their relationship from here on? Carefully drawn boundaries and hasty apologies?

“It’s...” Sherlock starts, and John drops his hand to look at him again, feeling suddenly exhausted. Sherlock swallows, adam’s apple bobbing in the pale column of his throat, drops his gaze to the book in his lap. “That’s probably for the best,” he murmurs.

John nods, sighs. “Sorry,” he says again, and catches Sherlock’s perplexed look when he glances at him again. He smiles awkwardly, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck, and adds, “Looks like I’m the one making explosive messes all over the place for once.”

Sherlock snorts, but he’s smirking down at his book when John looks at him again. John allows himself to relax slightly, his own smile beginning to feel more natural. “See you later?” he asks, and Sherlock looks up.

“Yes, of course,” the detective says, nodding, a hint of a smile still lingering about the edges of his mouth. John smiles wider in return and finally turns away to walk out to the cars.

It is weird, he supposes, John being the one to apologise so much: for most of their acquaintance, Sherlock has been the one raising hell, the one saying all the wrong things, the one being unintentionally or even _intentionally_ hurtful, but then, eventually, making amends, taking back what he’d said, returning contrite and apologetic to clean up his mess, or at least to mournfully look on while John finished cleaning up for him. Normally, John is the steady one, the one who knows what to do and say – maybe not how to manipulate his way onto a crime scene or how to extract information from a witness with the perfect twist of words and shammed expression, but he is the one who keeps Sherlock on track, the one whispering to him when his exuberance is beginning to draw negative attention, the one Sherlock looks to when he doesn’t know how to navigate a social setting, when he wants to be genuine and sweet but doesn’t quite know how. John was the one to help and guide him in those situations... or at least he used to be.

Now, it’s as though John can’t stop making one misstep after another. The way he’d treated Sherlock when he’d first returned, refusing to so much as listen to his explanations, clinging to his assumptions and suppositions about why he’d left in the first place. They’d got past it, though, finally, and for a brief, wonderful moment it had seemed as though they might actually be able to move forward, to pick up the pieces of their shattered relationship and forge it together anew. John had hoped that would mean continuing from where they left off before, exploring where their relationship might go, what it might grow into... What John had _wanted_ it to grow into, anyhow.

Those dreams are gone now, evaporated right before John’s eyes. He can’t mourn them, though – how could he, as if what he has now with Sherlock is somehow lesser? As if Sherlock were withholding something precious from John by rejecting his physical advances – no. The very thought sets a new wave of nausea rippling through his stomach, hardens his resolve when he sees Harry up ahead, leaning against one of the cars, rifle slung over her shoulder. John’s friendship with Sherlock is important, the most important thing in his life as far as he’s concerned, and he will _not_ allow anyone, even his own sister, to give Sherlock any reason to doubt that, much less make him feel guilty or discomfited because he doesn’t want any other sort of relationship with John.

“Get in the car,” John says as he draws near, voice hard, frowning in response to the glare on her face as he pulls the keys out of his pocket.

“Mind telling me what’s got you in such a truly spectacular strop today?” she asks in response, not moving.

“ _Get in the car, Harriet!_ ” John snaps, his patience quickly running thin.

She scoffs, and shrugs, and turns to pull the passenger door open, climbing in and shutting it behind her with a slam. Harry’s buckling herself in when John comes around to the driver’s side. “What the sodding hell is your problem, _Hamish?_ ” she demands as he slides in and starts the car.

John scowls at the use of his middle name, grits his teeth. “You are such a fucking twat sometimes, do you know that?”

“Not recently I haven’t been, unfortunately,” she shoots back, voice gone snide, that sarcastic sing-song tone that always used to make John see red when they were kids. He grips the steering wheel tight, willing himself to keep a hold on his temper as they drive out through the open gate into the countryside.

“Right, go on and make everything into a bloody sexual innuendo, that’s apparently all you know how to do,” he growls back at her, jerking the car around to the south, toward the nearby town, just a little way down the coast. Behind them, the gate creaks laboriously closed, no other vehicles following them out – no one else wants to risk getting caught in the Watson family feud.

“Oh, what, like _your_ delicate sensibilities have been offended?” Harry retorts. “Mister Nine-years-in-the-army who pulls birds by saying he plays the clarinet?!”

John flushes – because, yes, all right, he _has_ done that – and grinds his teeth together some more. “This isn’t about me,” he says, glaring over at her. “Though, you know, a bloke’s _older sister_ commenting on his sex life isn’t exactly _anybody’s_ idea of ‘comfortable.’”

“Oh, grow up,” Harry says, rolling her eyes.

“Coming from the woman who replies with ‘L-O-L’ in all caps on my blog,” John mutters, and instantly knows he’s hit a nerve at the sharp, tight-lipped look Harry shoots him. It is a bit below the belt, and John feels a faint itch of guilt as he continues to glower out through the windshield – most of that behaviour had been because of Harry’s drinking, and it’s hardly fair to throw that in her face now that she’s finally firmly on the wagon.

He finds he’s too irritated to care much right now, though.

The town is coming into view up ahead of them, outlying houses gradually growing closer together before finally coalescing into the buildings and shops of the high street.

“We’re just getting baby food, right?” Harry asks sulkily, glaring out the passenger window with her arms folded over her chest.

“Yes,” John gives a clipped answer, then blows out a long breath, trying to calm himself. He said he’d _talk_ to Harry, and bickering with her about random sibling grudges isn’t helping anyone. “Look, Harry, what you were saying to Sherlock earlier—”

“Ugh, is _that_ what’s got your knickers in a twist today?!” Harry exclaims, looking over at him incredulously as John parks in front of the Tesco.

“Harry—” John starts, temper rising again as he starts to get out of the car.

“No, really, I want to hear this – you think he’s some kind of shrinking violet, like he’s a shy little baby who needs you to defend him, like he can’t just _tell people_ when he doesn’t like something—”

John can feel heat climbing up his neck, behind his ears, tension in his jaw squeezing around the back of his skull, and without thinking he grabs up his backpack from between the front seats, jerks open the zip, reaches in, and flings the package of red pants across the width of the car at Harry.

She jumps, flinching and trying to catch them as they hit her right in the chest. “Oi—” she starts, then finally gets a grip on the plastic and a look at what’s in it. “Oh,” she says, looking over at John. “Actual knickers.”

John glares at her, slamming his door shut and turning away to start clearing the supermarket as he shoulders his pack and pulls his weapon from its holster. He hears Harry close her car door and follow him in a moment later.

They work in silence for several minutes, checking the aisles of darkened, near-empty shelves, watching for movement among the shadows. One collapsed body in a back corner is almost overlooked, the smear of blood next to it seeming at first to be the remains of a successful headshot – but then it struggles to its feet, starts lumbering toward them with dead eyes and a deep gash in its neck that’s dripping black, fetid goo all down its front. John unloads two quick shots into its brain, the backlash jolting through his bones as he grits his teeth in a frustrated grimace. Harry continues past him to the next row without a word.

When nothing else emerges to attack them, they both return to the front of the shop to regroup. John grabs a trolley and they begin their search for supplies, gathering whatever tinned and dehydrated foods are still left on the shelves, any sanitary and paper products they can find, before finally going looking for the baby products they need for the new arrivals.

“He _doesn’t_ like it, you know,” John says at last, picking up an armful of bottles as Harry pulls down canisters of powdered baby formula from another shelf. “When you talk about that shit. And he _has_ said – you just don’t take him seriously.”

Harry looks over at him with a frown. “It’s just a _joke._ ”

“ _No_ ,” John says, squeezing the bridge of his nose as he leans on the side of the trolley, “it’s really not, Harry.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, is your relationship _too serious_ for that?” Harry sneers, yanking on the basket to pull it along behind her down the aisle. John clenches his teeth, follows with his hands curled tight into fists. “So serious you don’t do a bloody thing about it – you don’t even _talk._ I swear, you two need all the help you can get!”

“You are _not_ helping!” John snarls in reply, slamming a fist down on the trolley’s handlebar, jerking it to a stop. “If anything, you’re making things _worse!_ ” he adds as Harry turns back around to glare at him.

“How can I be making it _worse?_ ” Harry demands, gesturing widely with the hand not holding her rifle. “You’re both so fucking _emotionally constipated_ , you may as well not even _have_ a relationship! You can’t get worse than _nothing!_ ”

“You don’t know what the sodding hell you’re talking about!” John all but yells back at her, shoving away from the trolley to stalk away down the aisle.

“I know he’s absolutely mad for you, but you spent the last few months punishing him for daring to not be _dead_ ,” Harry calls after him, words snapping out angrily, hitting John like a punch right between the shoulder blades.

He spins around, seething with rage, feeling his chest heave and his fists clench as Sherlock’s words from that day months ago echo in his mind, _“You’re angry that I’m alive!”_ And John hadn’t— He’d let Sherlock go on believing— “Yeah, all right, I messed up, okay?!” he shouts back at Harry. “I’ve cocked everything up, and just when I thought things were getting better, I went and ruined it all _again!_ No thanks to you, _by the way!”_

“You can’t blame me for this, _not this time_ —” Harry snarls, but then a commotion at the front of the shop cuts her off.

They both freeze, breath stuttering to a halt, listen to the sound of breaking glass, shuffling footsteps, the low groans of a group of zombies pushing its way into the supermarket. 

“Shit,” Harry hisses, voice low, looking around, “they must have heard us.” She looks back at John, and their eyes lock. After only a moment of silent communication, they both dive for cover at the end of the walkway, abandoning the trolley with all their supplies where it stands.

The undead move further into the building, spreading out as they explore, wandering almost aimlessly, hunting for the source of the noise they’d overheard. They’re slow, but there’s a lot of them – John counts at least ten shadows arching across the ceiling as they step through the front entrance, backlit by the daylight outside – and they won’t give up until they find something to feed on.

“Think there’s a back way out of here?” Harry whispers, glancing over at him from the end of row display across from John.

“Probably,” he whispers back, “but it’ll mean going through a back alley that may or may not be clogged with rubbish, or fenced off, or full of zombies.”

Harry sighs in frustration, peeks around the edge of the shelf for a moment before jerking back to avoid being seen. “Plus we’d have to find our way back around to the car, I suppose,” she murmurs.

John nods. “And I don’t know about you, but I don’t exactly have the layout of this town’s alleyways completely memorised.”

Harry snorts, glancing into the aisle again. “Should’ve brought wonder boy along after all.”

John glares across at her and she pulls a face, going so far as to stick her tongue out at him. “Mature,” he hisses, just as he hears a body collide with their trolley a few metres away, continue stumbling onward to a chorus of moans. They’re getting close. “How’s your ammo?”

“Good,” Harry responds, hefting her gun. “Ready?” she asks, looking over at him.

John meets her gaze, nods, and as one they roll out into the aisles on either side of them, Harry taking aim at the corpses moving around their discarded trolley, John in the next row over.

Gunshots ring out through the shop – two bodies fall before him as three, four blasts echo from Harry’s aisle – but the rest of the group are more alert now, zeroing in on them, growls growing louder, more aggressive, hungry. John drops another one that swings around the end of the row toward him, then flinches away when a rotting hand shoots through the empty shelving beside him, clawing the air for him, a snarling face and wide open maw trying to push through the cardboard backing to reach him. He manages to yank himself out of its reach, hears Harry swear and shoot off a few more rounds just as the shelf begins to give way under the zombie’s strength, metal groaning and what little is left of the shop’s merchandise shaking and rolling—

“ _Harry!_ ” John yells, sprinting for the back of the store, barely gets clear before the whole thing comes crashing down.

The shelf collapses into the open walkway, collides with the one across from it. It gives a mighty shudder, and for one terrified moment John thinks it’s about to tip over as well – but after a few treacherous sways it settles back on its base, holds firm, and Harry comes pelting out the end of the aisle toward him a moment later – apparently unharmed, thank god.

“All right?” John demands anyway, looking over at her even as he shoots the zombie with its arm caught under the fallen shelving.

“Fine,” Harry answers, looking back behind her at the undead still coming after them from her row. “You? I need to reload.”

“Got it,” John says, and steps between her and the zombies, taking aim. They fall one by one, _bam_ , _bam_ , _bam_ , clean shots right through the forehead.

“Think that’s all of the nasty buggers?” Harry asks, drawing even with him once more as John sets off down the aisle to reclaim the trolley of supplies.

“I certainly hope so,” he says, scanning the basket for stray splatters of blood or brain matter, anything that might suggest the things they’ve gathered could be contaminated.

“Looks clean,” Harry says, and John nods. They’ll wipe everything down with bleach water and antibacterial sanitizer when they get back to the castle either way, as they always do, just to be sure.

“We’d better get moving,” he says, looking around the wreck of the shop. “There’s no reason to think that’s the only herd in the area.” He spins the trolley around to face the entrance, but Harry stops him with a hand on his arm.

“One more thing,” she grins, jogging a short way down the aisle again to retrieve two large packages of disposable nappies.

John huffs a laugh and follows her. “May as well grab as many of these as we can fit in the car.”

They empty the shelf of newborn sized pampers, sanitising wipes, powder, even a few colourful toys, piling as much of it as they can fit high atop the trolley. Harry wants to stack a few more bags of nappies to carry in her arms out to the car, but John vetoes that plan – they need at least one person with their hands clear, ready to shoot if they encounter more undead outside. He pushes the trolley out toward the front doors, eyes sweeping the area ahead of them as they emerge onto the pavement. The street looks clear for the moment, and they hurry across to the car, popping the boot open and beginning to transfer their haul over, working quickly, silently, both looking furtively around every few seconds, watching for movement in the buildings and side streets around them.

“Well,” Harry says once the boot is full and they’re tossing the last few packages of nappies into the back seat. “This was certainly a fun way to spend a morning.” John snorts, shaking his head as she closes the car’s back door, wipes her hands down on her jeans.

He moves around to the front of the car, reaching for the driver’s door, when Harry’s voice stops him.

“John. Look at this.”

He looks over, but Harry’s gaze is on the ground, a slight frown creasing her face, brows pulled together. John circles around the car again, stops next to her and follows her line of sight to a patch of partially dried mud stretched across the middle of the street. “Hoofprints?” John asks, glancing at his sister.

Harry nods. “Horses. See the shape?” She points down at the mud, drawing in the air in front of her with her finger. “You only get that smooth semi-circle shape from horse shoes.”

John purses his lips, looks around at the buildings looming over them, empty windows staring back, yawning open, derelict and dark. “Somehow, I doubt a herd of horses would survive on its own out here without getting eaten.”

Harry shrugs, turns to look up at him. “They could if they’re fast, maybe. Though, we’ve seen ‘fast’ cars go down to a large enough swarm,” she adds grimly. “So, you think—?”

John nods, hands resting on his hips, on the Browning in its holster. “Somebody’s riding them.”

Harry raises her brows, looking back down at the hoofprints one more time and then up at the buildings as well. “Not a bad idea,” she comments, and elaborates when John glances at her again. “Don’t have to scavenge for petrol, now do you? Hell, you don’t even need to worry much about what to feed them – just give ‘em a patch of grass and some clean water and they’ll be happy, and we’ve certainly got plenty of both.”

“Hm,” John murmurs, noncommittal. She has a point: horses might be an advantage if they could get them, especially considering the finite supply of petrol left in the UK, possibly in the whole world. Of course, a horse can’t carry as many people as a single car can, and doesn’t offer the protection of walls and windows. Not that it even matters right now – they don’t currently have any choice but to keep their car, and even if they did, John would probably opt for both, a variety of transportation options for the castle to rely upon.

“We’ll have to take the scenic route home,” he says, dropping his voice as he steps over to the driver’s side once more. Harry raises an eyebrow at him but doesn’t comment as she slides into the passenger seat.

Maybe it’s just a paranoid hunch, but there’s something about this that’s rubbing John up the wrong way, something sitting uncomfortably across his shoulders as he climbs into the driver seat. If their suppositions about the horses are right, then that means there are, or were, other people within the ten minute or so journey from the castle, within _sight_ of the castle – John and Harry had stood right here in this very town when they’d spotted the ruins for the first time. But for some reason, these people haven’t revealed themselves or made any sort of contact. Seeing anyone outside of their little community is rare enough these days, survivors growing fewer and further between with each passing week – so why would they come so close without asking for refuge?

 _Sherlock would be able to figure this out,_ he thinks with a frown. The world’s only consulting detective would pick out the one little detail that doesn’t fit in a matter of moments, would instantly realise whatever it is that John’s missing. He shakes his head, starts the car, pulls out into the road as Harry continues to scan their surroundings. Whatever it is, whatever’s actually going on here, all they can do for the moment is try and keep it from following them back to the castle. It means using more fuel than this short trip usually requires, driving out through the south end of town, away from the castle, looping out west, meandering for a while, before finally turning north again, drawing a wide, winding circle that would hopefully shake any pursuers from their tail, force them to either reveal themselves and demand a confrontation or else lose interest as the car seems bound to nowhere in particular.

They drive in silence for a while, hills and trees and scrubby, overgrown houses passing by outside the windows, the cliffs and ocean eventually falling away as they turn westward, inland, to begin the trip back home. It’s not peaceful silence, exactly, but it’s also not stormy anymore, not as tense as the drive out from the castle. John glances over at Harry, leaning against her window, watching the road behind them for signs of pursuit. He draws in a breath, bracing himself, loath to restart their fight from earlier, but it needs to be said, he needs to be absolutely clear that she can’t keep talking to Sherlock like that. “Look, what we were talking—”

“Yelling.”

“—about earlier,” John says, not pausing but shooting a glare over at his sister at the interjection. “You’ve really got to stop doing things like this – practical jokes, heckling Sherlock, making everything into a sexual innuendo.”

“John, that is the point, it’s a _joke!_ ” Harry cries, throwing her hands up in exasperation as she turns to look over at him. “It’s not serious, and it’s not hurting anyone!”

“Well, it’s making Sherlock uncomfortable,” John snaps, shooting her a fierce scowl.

Harry frowns at him for a long moment, looking like she’s trying to figure out some impenetrable conundrum. Then, just as John’s turning his attention back to the road, she demands, “You sure it’s _Sherlock_ who’s uncomfortable with those insinuations?”

“ _What_ —” John squeezes his eyes shut for a second, rage skyrocketing, blood pumping loud in his ears. “What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?!”

“It _means_ you spent months and _months_ telling anyone who would listen that you _couldn’t_ _possibly be gay!_ ” Harry snarls at him, her sudden ferocity making him jump and look over at her again. “Even though _everyone_ could see how you felt about him, even though you were making yourself _miserable_ denying it, the idea of anyone thinking of _you_ as a _dirty sodding queer_ was just so terrifying that you were willing to sacrifice any chance of a relationship with the man you’ve been _in love with_ since the day you _fucking met him!_ ”

“That is not what this is about!” John shouts back.

“Oh really?” Harry sneers. “I’m not _blind_ , John, I’ve seen you with him since he got back, or at least since you finally pulled your head out of your arse. You just don’t want anyone to know you’re together, _again_ , because then they might look at _you_ and think you’re a—”

“There is nothing going on between me and Sherlock,” John interrupts, voice firm. Harry doesn’t look like she believes that for a second, and he sighs, licks his lips, adds in a mutter, “Much as I would like for there to be.”

He feels Harry studying him silently for several long moments. “Well,” she says at length, “how’s that for a breath of fresh air.”

John glances over at her, frowning. “It’s not exactly _news_ ,” he grumbles. “As you just made perfectly clear.”

“It is for you to actually _admit it_ ,” Harry spits back at him.

John clenches his teeth, scanning the countryside passing by outside. “This was never about _me_ not wanting to admit it,” he says, and Harry scoffs. He looks over at her again. “In case you recall, I nearly got thrown out of school for fighting that kid who called you a—” He cuts off, shakes his head, can’t finish that sentence.

“Right, you’re a bloody knight in shining fucking armour,” she retorts, then sucks in a deep breath through her nose, visibly trying to calm herself. “It’s a hell of a lot easier to be an ally to somebody else than to admit that _you_ could be gay yourself.”

John purses his lips, nods after a moment. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. But that’s really not—”

“What _is_ it about, then, John?!” Harry asks with a maddening sigh. “Since _I’m_ apparently wrong on all counts—”

“It’s about Sherlock saying he’s not interested!” John snaps, the words out of his mouth before he’s even decided to speak them. He’s breathing heavily, hands clenched around the steering wheel. Harry is silent, watching him. “He said so right when we met, that he was ‘married to his work,’ but after a while I started to think that maybe that had changed, maybe now that we were friends he might—” He blows out a long breath through his nose, jaw tight, can feel something twitching in his temple from the tension.

“You actually came onto him first?” Harry asks after a beat of silence.

John glances at her, frowning, sighs. “I... Yeah. I mean, it was easy to brush it off, back then, just keep dating other people.”

“ _Women_.”

“Yeah, well, I still _mostly_ prefer women,” he snaps, shooting her a glare.

“Can’t really blame you there,” Harry says, and smirks. “He is _awfully_ pretty, though. Could turn nearly anyone gay.”

John can feel his face settling into a permanent scowl – a regular occurrence when trying to have any sort of serious discussion with his sister. “Not that it _matters_ ,” he emphasises, “since he doesn’t...” He shakes his head, looks away out of the window.

Harry’s quiet for a moment. “I don’t know what he told you before,” she says slowly, “but he’s absolutely arse over elbow for you now, Johnny. I don’t know why you can’t see it. Everyone else certainly can.”

John shakes his head again, gritting his teeth. “Just because you’ve got in your head that we—”

“ _Not just me_ , Johnny. _Everyone_ ,” Harry cuts him off, and John looks over at her. She meets his gaze, holds it, completely serious. “I’ve rarely seen anyone as lovesick, honestly. He follows you around like a puppy most of the time, or else he sits by watching you, practically green to the gills with jealousy that you’re paying attention to anyone else.”

“Harry—”

“ _And_ you haven’t seen him when you go off on raids!” she talks right over him. “Non-stop pacing, muttering to himself, harassing the guards. I thought he was going to yank all his hair out once or twice. It’s like he can’t _think_ when you’re not around.”

“Yeah well, he hasn’t exactly wanted me around the last few days, has he?” John snaps, glaring over at her.

Harry brushes that aside with a wave of her hand. “He’s always been a deep thinker, though, I thought. Gets lost in his head, at least the way you used to talk about him, forgets whether you’ve gone out. I mean, don’t you think it says something of how he thinks about you if he talks to you even when you’re not there?”

John shakes his head, refuses to take the bait – it’s not exactly original, something he’d been ribbed about more than a few times in the past, by friends and neighbours and the police, anyone who knew the two of them well. It doesn’t mean anything but that genius needs an audience, or at least the perception of one, and the actual identity of that audience is apparently negligible. Sherlock even used to call Molly by John’s name on occasion, because he couldn’t be bothered to remember who was helping him in the lab. “This was different. This wasn’t just forgetting where he was or spending time in his Mind Palace – this was _actively avoiding_ _me_. And I can’t really say that I blame him.”

Harry raises an eyebrow at him, smiling as though he’s being utterly ridiculous. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

John looks away, licks his lips, considers sidestepping the question altogether. He was the one who brought it up, though, and who knows, maybe another perspective will actually help with this. Maybe understanding the full situation will finally get Harry to leave Sherlock the hell alone. “I kissed him,” he says quietly, not looking at her. “Just on the cheek, I mean. But he reacted... badly.”

His sister is silent a moment, and then she lets out a low whistle. “Well. Good on you, Johnny boy. And here I was fearing you’d be stuck in straight-but-not no man’s land for the rest of your life.”

John glares at her. “Can you not make everything into a joke? For _once?_ ”

Harry shrugs, looking away, clearly irritated. “Look, maybe he was just, you know, embarrassed? Flustered? He’s not exactly the smoothest crayon in the box, after all.”

John gives a single, dry huff of laughter, shaking his head. No, Sherlock’s really not all that smooth, not unless he’s actively shamming to get a desired reaction. The rest of the time, he seems to range between ‘gangly baby giraffe that hasn’t quite got the hang of walking’ and ‘completely unconscious sex on legs.’ The talk of his body being nothing more than transport seems to be something Sherlock has taken to heart, as he seems entirely disconnected – except for when using it as a weapon of mass manipulation – from the way his body can and does affect those around him, and specifically how it affects _John_.

But that is not what’s going on here, John’s sure of it. “If he was just flustered, why was he so relieved when I apologised to him yesterday and promised I would never do it again?”

“You did what?!” Harry squawks.

John rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “I _apologised_ to him. You know, it’s that thing that most decent human beings do when they realise they’ve done something wrong?”

“Oh, shut up,” Harry says, reaching across to shove him on the arm. “Did you ever consider that maybe it’s the _kissing_ he objects to, and not you? Because, seriously,” she gives him a meaningful look, “ _follows you around like a puppy._ ”

John laughs reluctantly, shaking his head. “I didn’t say I thought he _hated_ me. I apologised, and he accepted, and things have been better since then. We’re still friends. I just...” He purses his lips, momentary levity evaporating fast.

“You want more,” Harry says quietly, and when John glances over at her he’s surprised to find her expression has turned grim.

“Yeah,” John murmurs, and looks away.

They’re both quiet for several minutes, the road passing steadily beneath them, turning to familiar terrain as they draw closer to the castle. Harry’s staring out the window again, apparently uninterested in talking anymore – finally hit one of her own nerves in the conversation, maybe.

John takes a breath, feeling... charitable, maybe, in the face of his sister’s uncharacteristic gravity. “Bisexual,” he says into the silence. Harry twitches, doesn’t look over at him yet. “I am, I mean. Just. By the way. I mean, I think that’s the best term for it.”

Harry looks away from the window, down at her lap, finally nods. “You know, a lot of people don’t differentiate between pansexuality and bisexuality—”

“ _Harry._ ”

She stops, holds up her hands. “Okay. Sorry.”

“I’m mostly attracted to women, always have been... but, you know, sometimes men too. And I’m in love with a man.” He pauses, draws in a long breath. “A man who seems to like me well enough but doesn’t want me to touch him. So what the hell does that make me?”

“A headcase?” Harry offers with a small, sympathetic smile. John glares at her anyway, and she shrugs. “Hey, you’re not the only one. I’ve gone and fallen for a straight girl, after all.”

John blinks, eyebrows rising. “You? You mean...?” That’s what that comment earlier was about, then.

“Emily,” Harry nods, her smile turning brittle, self-deprecating.

John looks away, fingers drumming on the steering wheel as the castle finally comes into view through the trees. “She does seem fond of you.”

“Oh yeah, we’re _great_ friends!” Harry says, throwing her hands up expansively. Then, without looking at John, she adds more quietly, “Wouldn’t it be nice if that were enough?”

John licks his lips, slowing the car as they approach the gate, and nods.

They’re quiet again as they pull into the castle compound and begin unloading the provisions from the boot. Most of it gets carried inside by the others who come out to help, but John and Harry each grab up packages of nappies, formula, and bottles to take down to Rebecca and the baby in quarantine.

“John,” Harry says, drawing his attention as they start across the courtyard, away from everyone else. “Do you remember,” she asks when he looks over at her, “when we were on the road before, before we found this place...”

“How could I forget?” he replies with a sardonic look, raising an eyebrow at her. It was months of their life, living entirely out of Harry’s car, living by their wits and their weapons, fighting off zombies and humans alike as they struggled to survive, no one to rely on but each other.

“Shut up,” Harry says, bumping her shoulder into his. “I _meant_ , when we were on the road, at one point I was trying to explain to you all of the many intricacies of the LGBTQ community.”

“Right,” John says, nodding. It was when she was still detoxing, still wracked with fever and cold sweats, shaking and thirsty, withdrawals wringing her dry, rambling on about any topic that came to mind in an effort to distract herself. John had listened with half an ear, most of his attention on the road and their surroundings and where their next meal was going to come from.

“I had it in my head at the time that maybe if I just educated you enough, you’d stop going about insisting you were straight,” she continues.

“I’m not—”

“I know, I know!” Harry waves him off. “I just wanted you to actually _admit_ it.”

“I never _said_ I was straight,” John grumbles, teeth clenched.

“ _Okay_ ,” Harry says. “I just _meant_ , the stuff that’s happened with you and Sherlock reminded me of something. Have you ever heard of someone being asexual?” she asks, watching him expectantly.

John looks over at her, frowning. “I assume you don’t mean like cellular reproduction?” he asks, pausing to pull open the gate leading to the quarantine building.

“No,” Harry laughs, walking past him into the fenced-in walkway.

“So… they just don’t like sex, then?”

“Basically,” Harry says. “It’s an orientation just like being gay or,” she gestures at him with a smirk, “bisexual.”

John rolls his eyes, following her down the pavement beyond the wall. He’s going to regret telling her that, he’s fairly sure. “So like straight people like the opposite sex, gay people like the same sex, asexual people don’t like anyone?” he hypothesizes.

“Exactly,” Harry nods. “But they specifically dislike _sex_ , I think, not people in general,” she says. “Like a lot of asexual people still date and have gender preferences just like everyone else. And some of them even like touching or kissing or whatever.”

“Or not,” John adds sourly, suddenly extremely tired of this conversation. “I take it you think Sherlock is an, er, asexual?” he asks as Harry pushes open the door to the stables where Rebecca, Robert, and baby Rory are waiting.

She shrugs, leaning back to hold the door open until he walks in past her. “I mean, you’d have to ask him,” she says. “But from what you said… it seems like maybe he could be, you know?”

John hums noncommittally, approaching the two occupied cells. The privacy curtains are pulled shut behind the bars on both of them, but John doesn’t doubt for a moment that Robert and Rebecca can both hear them. Speculations on Sherlock’s theoretical sexuality, or lack thereof, aren’t exactly the sort of thing John wants to share with the castle’s general populace.

“Anyway,” Harry says, stopping next to Rebecca’s cubicle and rapping her knuckles against one of the bars. “Just something to consider. And, you know, _ask him_ about,” she adds pointedly, grinning back at him as Rebecca pulls back her curtain a little ways.

“He’s sleeping,” the younger woman whispers, gesturing back into her cell and gratefully accepting a set of bottles and baby formula from Harry. John passes her the nappies next, a handful at a time through the bars, glad when Harry starts chatting quietly with Rebecca instead of him. Behind them, Robert remains secluded in his cell with the curtains drawn and no sign of movement within.

It is some food for thought, he supposes as he finishes with the nappies and turns to make his way back toward the castle, leaving Harry behind in the quarantine house once again. He’s no idea what Sherlock actually is, what he identifies as, but John had always suspected it was somewhere closer to the gay end of the scale if anything, though the detective never seemed to show much more interest in men than he did in women. This new possibility _does_ make a certain amount of sense, at least as much as any other options do. Something to think about, as Harry said. And something to ask Sherlock about. Maybe. If John can ever manage to figure out how to start _that_ conversation.

_“I noticed you hated it when I tried to kiss you. Tell me, is it possible you actually do fancy me but just don’t want to have sex? No pressure, I swear.”_

Right. John shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair as he mounts the steps at the castle’s front entrance. That’s not something he’s likely to say in the near future. Or _ever_.

To borrow one of Sherlock’s lines: this is very much _not_ his area.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re: Identities, and specifically the idea of Sherlock being asexual. I am asexual myself, so most of the information regarding that in coming chapters is from my own experiences & the word of others in the ace community - but, being fiction, it will also be filtered through the perceptions of the characters, so some things may be a little off. No one is an expert when it comes to these issues, after all ;)
> 
> I also have some serious headcanon regarding yes-actually-bisexual!John (as in, Sherlock is not his one "gay exception"), along with other character/plot metas for this series, but I don't think this is the time or place for it. Maybe I'll write some of it up on tumblr if there's an interest.


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